


Sleeping With the Enemy

by LyingToYourInstincts



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: BL, BoyxBoy, Gumlee - Freeform, Gumshall - Freeform, M/M, Slash, Yaoi, boyslove, please read or i shall drown in a pit of despair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 54,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4422005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyingToYourInstincts/pseuds/LyingToYourInstincts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How far would you go to save yourself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Debt

**Author's Note:**

> Babes! I just wanted you all to know the original story is on wattpad, and my re-uploading might be a little slow so feel free to check out on there, same username and story title. This is not all fluff, there will be darker plot areas and I am a fan of angst so be prepared. Please feel free to critique or request, this is an open loving space my children. Stay hydrated.
> 
> -Writer

He always dressed completely to perfection. Not a single hair slipped sloppily out of place, even the freckles sprinkled upon his face seemed inexplicably even and sized symmetrically.

He was magazine model material.

And Marshall found the knowledge of such perfection, much less the presence of it, one hundred percent repulsive.

"Are you even going to say anything, or were you brought here in vain?" The creature questioned, legs neatly crossed atop each other like pieces of pristine patchwork. By now Marshall's breathing had steadied, although his heart rate had yet to cease skyrocketing. The bully sighed with trepidation at the blatant lack of response, and even such a bitter vocal expression resounded beautifully from his smooth and even lips.

His arm raised upward, bringing with it in altitude his petite and practically entirely sheer shirt (which definitely broke several dress codes, not that he'd ever be called out for such misbehavior) and exposing a dangerous amount of pale and unbroken flesh, forcing Marshall to fix his gaze somewhere else. (Couldn't he just wear a t-shirt and jeans, like everyone else?) The golden wristwatch he wore proudly glittered as he gazed at its ivory face, as if reminding Marshall of all the luxuries he could never possibly obtain.

Marshall accessed his current situation with great care. He risked the slim percentage of "everything" that he had previously grown accustomed to, just by being here. You don't simply break bread with big Kahuna, not if you were miles beneath him in social status. Not if you wanted to live. It had already taken so much effort just to get this "meeting" arranged, so he'd best tread carefully from this point on.

His companion looked at his watch once more, face pulled into an unimpressed pout.

"I really do not have time for mutes, Lee, so unless you're going to state your demands any time soon-"

"-I need you to fix my grades."

It sounded even more pathetic voicing this singular need out loud than it had rehearsing it over and over again in his head. Like, really and truly pathetic. He might as well just run around school in an "I'm a giant moron" shirt and save everyone else the effort.

Still. Marshall couldn't afford to flunk out, so he'd come to the only person (social rankings cast away) who could potentially offer him that kind of help. Not as if he had been thought of that highly by "The Candy Prince" before this particular stunt in the first place.

The mocking alligator smile was practically a given for his company, therefore Marshall was certainly less than shocked by it. All the same, the cruelty it implied made him shiver a bit. This boy could likely destroy him in mere seconds. Better yet, he'd enjoy it.

"For an outcast, you have a lot of nerve, don't you, Lee? Intrusions, interruptions, you really never cease to amaze."

The Prince shifted his upper half once more, reaching upward to "adjust" his already flawless hair. It was starting to look intentional at this point, which made it all the more enraging. Marshall had to swiftly avert his eyes again, settling this time for the image of his own dollar store brand shoelaces.

Marshall's jaw was clenched tightly, his veins protruding from his own flesh, which was of course, uneven and scarred. The bell was liable to ring any minute now, and he couldn't afford to miss the bus, but he also couldn't afford to give up quite so easily.

"I know you have access to the grading books, I know you could easily up the grades of any of your lackeys if you needed, and I know you could do the same for me, and I'll do whatever it takes to get you to make that decision. It really isn't any more complicated than that."

The dominant figure finally allowed his feet (which were oddly petite for a boy his age, playing more into the whole doll-like stereotype) to connect with the broken down tiled floor, the left leg of his shorts riding up as it caught on to the top of the smooth hardwood desk. Marshall felt his stomach churn and heat rush up to his face. Not only was he ashamed for feeling this way over just a little bit of skin, he was also fairly enraged by the cruel intent behind it.

At this point he has to be doing it on purpose, he seethed to himself, there's no way that he isn't just mocking me.

However, this inkling of an idea seemed to be all but blatantly rejected when the fellow student suppressed a cuss word upon noticing the new snag in his clothing, and regarded it with pure shock and resentment. The minor fracture in his perfect exterior had disrupted the usual schedule of pure symmetry, although the cold hearted being seemed to be the only one affected negatively by it.

Marshall continued to look away awkwardly, trying to dispel any dirty thoughts from his mind and put to ease that ridiculously rapid heartbeat of his.

"The difference is, Marshall, my "lackeys" (as you so obnoxiously put it) do not require such services, as they have actual intelligence. Also, I don't hate their guts."

Marshall bit his tongue. The words were meant to stick, by now he knew. Besides, he faced much harsher on a daily basis. As the teen brushed past him, their hands just barely touched, holy skin in contrast to disheveled exterior.

Just as he reached the doorway, Marshall called out to him once more in pitiful desperation, hating every minute of the begging even while he was living it.

"Wait! I'll do anything, please!" It was unlike him to stoop so low like this, but he had little to no choice. He couldn't repeat his grade again, he had to get out of here, find a job, find a way to care for him and his mother. He'd literally rather off himself than remain a high school student for even a second longer than necessary.

The Prince turned, just for the slightest of moments, a wicked smile strewn across his face. "I'll hold you to that promise."

And that was when Marshall knew that he had ultimately doomed himself to suffering.


	2. Stronger Than Me

Gunta?" a rough voice called as the old porch door swung cautiously open. "Gunta is that you? Get in here."

Marshall ignored his mother's croaky voice and current delusional state resounding from within the living room, instead storming into his small bedroom and slamming the door behind him, watching his many posters shift uneasily at the spontaneous combustion of brutality. A singular pale hand reached for the zipper of his backpack, yanking it downward in one motion, the other hand removing a small device from the now open bag.

His eyes were narrowed slits as he turned the device on and slipped the pebble-like buds into either ear, hoping to be soothed by jazzy sounds and clever lyrics. This was how a day in the life of Lee usually went. Fail several school assignments, suffer abuse from the Prince's goonies, and return home, only to avoid his alcoholic mother by blasting music in his ears until his next big consequential headache.

_"You should be stronger than me..."_

Marshall picked at the scab on his wrist, ignoring the stinging sensation that was being received from such an action. He had this nasty habit of always picking at fresh wounds, thus making them far worse than they were originally.

Who calls themselves a prince anyways? Just because he's rich and probably has some sort of sugar fetish he gets a stupid nickname.

Then again, the raven haired teen would have killed for a nickname of his own outside of "loser" and "hobo slut". Heck, even "homo" wasn't his scene. (Is it really that necessary to state the obvious to some people?)

The smoothness of Amy Winehouse's lyrics poured into his skin, distracting him from his troubles and blasting his fears away. Outside of his room his drunken mother grew reckless, but why concern himself with that? No, it was much better to stay locked away in his room, hidden from any possibility of harm. Not like he could do anything to console her which he hadn't already tried.

_"I'm not gonna meet your mother anytime,"_

_"I just wanna grip your body, over mine."_

Images flew into his head like wildfire in response to the lyrical implications, the kind of images you wouldn't want your parents to see. Marshall felt his cheeks begin to warm, matching the temperature of the handheld object which kept him company. He wished his mind wouldn't always wander like this, or at the very least that it wouldn't wander to him of all people. And today certainly hadn't helped.

Sighing, he removed the earbuds, and paused the song, just as his door swung open. So much for security and privacy.

The one time I forget to lock the door...

"Marshy...honey. How was Pre-K?" Marshall looked up at the middle aged woman, choppy bangs that somewhat matched hers flopping down awkwardly in his face. He could argue with Simone, he could attempt to remind her that it had been many years since the incident and he was no longer a small child that needed babying. But through all her drunkenness and her loose hold on sanity, Marshall knew to make an effort would be pointless. Better to give her those few words of assurance until she wandered back to her bottles.

"It was great, mom. Pre-K was great."

She smiled a little, happy believing that her son was accomplishing something, while he was just happy she at least remembered having a son. There had been worst days, he needed to at the very least remember that. Things could always be worse.

Her smile exposed rotting gums and beer-stained teeth, but her eyes were as soft as freshly fallen snow. The only part of her body that hadn't been worn out by time and pain and booze binges.

"And? Did you make any new friends?" She inquired, surprising both of them by her influx of coherent and intelligent sentences.

Marshall thought back to his earlier conversation with the school's meanest prep, keeping in mind the deal that had been made.

"I did, actually," he replied at last, smiling bitterly. It was quite obviously a lie, but she would likely never find out, or end up too wasted to care. At least, for the time being, Marshall could please his mother.

"He really likes me, ma. I may have finally made it with the cool kids."


	3. Lunch Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still new to this site, so my updates take longer and for that I apologize. Keep in mind this story is also available (and a few chapters ahead) on both Wattpad and Fanfiction, so you darlings can use whatever format you are most comfortable with.

Marshall spent the next day frantically scampering from class to class doing just about everything under the sun.

He spent all of his free period collecting nerd books from the library (Up until that point Marshall hadn't even known that their school had one), after which he was met by The Prince and his gang and asked (demanded) to tie each and every one of their shoelaces one by one. They were of course, all already tied, so it was a whole untie-retie sort of situation. Joy.

"This is nothing for him," one of them laughed, his eyebrows were practically growing over his eyes themselves, so Marshall had just taken to calling him Eyebrows, "I've heard that he's used to being on his knees."

Marshall grimaced, his hand slipped and he had press himself even closer to the ground to retrieve the runaway aglet as consequence. Although someone had meekly attempted to dispel the aroma with a dozen Clorox treatments, he could still smell the stench of each and every foot that had ever brandished the tile floor, and they seemed to date back to the early 1800's. He gripped his stomach with one hand, and resisted to urge to blow chunks all over each and every one of the pretty little shoes before him. Though doing so would probably have made for poetic justice.

"If I had known that your dad was such a snitch, I wouldn't have come over in the first place."

Eyebrows seemed to look down at him from underneath his thick bouquet of human fuzz. He likely had an angry sort of expression plastered across that red face of his, but it was awfully hard to be certain.

"What did you say?"

Marshall finished up his chore in silence. But for a split second he could've sworn he saw the Prince smile.

Marshall spent his lunch time gathering up all the trash that his fellow students had so generously left behind after downing their cold sandwiches and juicy boxes. All the crinkled bits of foil, all the sludgy stains of meatloaf surprise, the works. If any of the teachers currently on lunch duty found it suspicious that one particular student was doing the cleaning up for two-hundred, they certainly didn't feel it was a phenomenon worth addressing. Marshall could hardly blame them for their bystanding state, they had nothing to gain in sticking up for him, or any other kid without rich and powerful parents for that matter. He'd often wondered if in their situation, he would have become the same way.

Aside from the ache he was getting in his stomach from not eating, his first day of poor grade penance was becoming surprisingly manageable. Lee had gotten so ridiculously used to being a human chew toy anyways, and this was practically a whole level up from the original chew toy criteria. And the bonus lack of beatings? What was next, a party in his honor? If he had lost all remaining self-respect right then and there, he might have even skipped all the way to the bus lot that afternoon. Key-word might.

I might just come out of this completely unharmed, Lee thought to himself blissfully, securing the idea and savoring it sweetly as one might the last candy in the package, and with decent grades!

He was wrong.


	4. School Bus

Marshall sat down on the steps of his front porch. Steady breaths. He needed a moment to retain those. The sky was already blackening like burnt chicken, though he'd only departed from the bus several minutes ago. He closed his eyes and waited. Eventually amidst the night silence he felt his body ease up, and Marshall took this as cue to return to his former standing position.

"Good, I was starting to worry that we wouldn't be heading inside after all."

So much for the whole "calming down ritual".

Out of instinct Marshall reached for his pocketknife, the one he always kept glued to the intestines of his pocket like a security blanket, preparing himself for hypothetical attack right up until the moment he realized just who he would be attacking.

"You carry that at school? Mm, somebody likes breaking rules…" He had this habit of saying things that could almost be received as compliments or flirtation, but he'd say them with that condescending tone, with the overbearing posture, so that even the densest knew that they were being mocked.

Still, it made Marshall blush. Out of agitation or excitement, he wasn't quite sure, and wasn't quite looking to delve that deep in search of sureness. The "Prince" reached out and clutched the knife hand gently, as if daring Marshall to do something with it. Anything. Because he knew for a fact that he wouldn't.

Marshall coarsely yanked his hand away from the grasp and forced the blade back into his pocket, folded up gymnast-style once again.

"How the hell do you know where I live?"

"I know everything. Aren't you going to invite me in?"

On one hand, there was the possibility that this was all an elaborate dream. In which case Marshall should just go with it in honor of self-indulgence. Didn't he deserve some minute smidgen of satisfaction, at least in his dreams? On the other hand, this was real, and not letting him in (in other words: disobeying) would mean some sort of overdramatic retribution the next time the two were together. Together. Marshall swallowed the fatty lump in his throat. He closed his eyes again. He didn't really have a choice.

"If you wake my mom up, I'm kicking your ass," he replied at last, slowly slipping open the porch door, steadying it with both hands to muffle all potential shrill screeches.

"Sure," the Prince said, looking him up and down as if he knew some sort of secret, "That's what you'd do to me."

Marshall's hands were already starting to sweat. He wiped them on the seat of his jeans, but it scarcely helped in alleviating the situation.

Luckily for both of them there was no long hallway to maneuver through, and they were able to make it to Marshall's bedroom unnoticed.

Marshall's bedroom.

"So, what is it that you want?" Marshall asked, "and make it fast, because I want to listen to music, and then sleep. You caught me on one of my busier evenings." He was trying for a joke, poking fun at his pathetic social life situation, but it fell flat and lacked any noticeable form of reciprocation. He wasn't exactly surrounded by the jesting type.

First and foremost, the Prince took off his jacket. Marshall hadn't even realized that he had worn one today. To be fair, he'd been too busy offering up goods and services to acknowledge any of the other's current get up.

It wasn't anything particularly special, standard rich boy pink shirt and a pair of neither school nor weather appropriate shorts. Nothing he hadn't worn a million different times in a million different variations. There was in fact but one difference, one distinguishable outlier, and it lie further upward, hidden in his eyes. Something different about his eyes…

"It's hot in here," he stated bluntly, clearly insinuating that Marshall' s mind was still on the now discarded jacket. Like that were the greatest of his problems.

Marshall scratched at the back of his head.

_Well he isn't wrong._

"You didn't answer my question, you come into my house at night the least you can do is answer my questions." Something about the way the Prince was acting, or more accurately, the way he wasn't, was throwing Marshall for a loop. Even for a dream, his eyes...the entire situation was sketchy at best.

"I'm sorry, what was the question?" The prince took a step closer, his legs so pale that they seemed to shimmer like strips of moonlight with each step he took. It was either eerie or beautiful, maybe both. Marshall wasn't sure how to take an "I'm sorry" from his present company, so he didn't.

"Yeah, I'm sure you totally already forgot. That you've got a 4.0 and you can't even remember my stupid question."

He first let a single palm rest upon Marshall's shoulder, curiously. Tentatively as a baby bird. Further confirming the earlier "this is all a dream" suspicions. Marshall immediately tensed in retaliation, waiting for some sort of violence to occur. He had never really thought of the high school's number one nerd as a sincere physical threat, but to be fair he'd never thought of him coming over to his dumpy little home in this first place. This night was simply proving to be full of surprises.

But the most surprising surprise by far, was when the Candy Prince's lips met his own.

To say that Marshall Lee "panicked" would be a blatant understatement. So much so that it was almost a total lie. He stood there with his eyes wide open, mouth unmoving. For an infinity's worth of ten seconds, he thought that he was having a heart attack. He thought that he was going to die. And not the giddy schoolgirl variety of "die", in which the term is simply used to illustrate a combination of giggles and endearing excitement. No. Marshall quite literally thought he was about to be not breathing, and then continue to be not breathing for the rest of forever.

Eventually he pried himself from the rapid-fire stagnation, and squinted like he was staring directly into the sun. Definitely not a dream. Dreams don't hurt so much.

"What the hell was the point of that?! Who put you up to it?!"

The Prince appeared to have been expecting that he would revive the opposites sort of reaction, he seemed almost genuinely offended at what he had actually evoked. As if he himself were any position to play shocked.

"You do like me don't you? Maybe not in regards to my ever so pleasant personality, but at the very least in regards to this." At the mention of this, the prince gestured to his body with one singular motion of his hand, a conductor and his incipient silent symphony.

Marshal still couldn't even properly meet his eyes. His body was shaking to the slightest degree, and he hoped that much wasn't ultimately noticeable. That, his hot face, twitching hands, or the heartbeat that he could've sworn would disturb the neighbors. He tried to clench his fists, preparing for a punch he'd never throw.

"I'm not playing with you, who set you up to this!" Marshall's eyes widened as they danced across the perimeter, "Do you…do you have cameras on you?"

The prince tilted his head.

"Christ, you're paranoid. You really think I'd want anyone else seeing me like this? That it'd be any good for my reputation?"

And therein lie the difference betwixt dreams and reality. Even when he was offered it all by the one whom he wanted offers from the most, something still remained missing. Love. The feeling of mutual acknowledgement and acceptance, a feeling Marshall had been excluded from in his lifetime for so very long. Even if they were to make love, it hardly sounded like there was going to be even a sliver of love in the making.

Marshall wasn't swayed so easily. He was a lot of pitiable things, but stupid was far from one of them. He chewed on his lip, trying to remain sensible despite the horse's gallop worth of a pulse he presently maintained.

"Then why?" he questioned, as if he had hopes of getting any sort of any honest and heartfelt answer, "Why come here to my home, and do this to me?"

Marshall sat down on his mattress, and despite his scrawny build, it caved a little underneath him. It had after all, been his since childhood. Deep within the confines of his gut he was still bracing himself for a heavily a saturated confession, or at the least a little bit of misty eye. "Because you're beautiful" wasn't quite everything he'd been looking for, but he would gratefully accept one of those as well. No such luck.

"Does it matter?"

After surviving the initial pain of hearing it aloud, Marshall had to think a bit on that one. It mattered to him, sure, but to be fair, so what? It was getting late, and who among us can stay wholly locked into feelings and morals and ethics and reason 24 hours out of the day?

He looked back at the other boy standing in his bedroom, for the first and probably the last time. Life doesn't freely give out opportunities such as this one, not for the faint of heart. The undersides of either of his hands were all sweaty again, and just being in the same room as him all alone was making it hard to think straight.

He could either take the moral highroad, or die with the knowledge, with the exact feeling from all of his fantasies.

Marshall shook his head.

The Prince smiled, and Marshall was glad that he wasn't given the time to register whether or not the smile had its typical alligator essence before he was kissed again. He didn't want to know.


	5. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I cry because this chapter was in my mind from day one, but I really didn't want to write it.

"I think I heard something."

"You're an idiot."

But Marshall simply shook his head, shoving the other away and remaining resolute.

"I know what I heard," he said. He considered dancing around the words but eventually decided against this, "and you need to leave."

They had not left the light on so the room remained in a state of prominent darkness, but Marshall could imagine quite descriptively the way in which he was being stared at, the pure slack-jawed disbelief of it all, the oncoming "who do you think you are"s beamed belligerently at him via pupil and iris.

"You can't be serious. Don't you have any idea what time it is?"

Not a clue, but I'm sure you'll tell me.

"You need to leave, I heard her moving and if it isn't in the direction of the kitchen then she's coming in here to check on me. And she thinks- "

The prince narrowed his eyes.

"She thinks what? That you're straight? Trust me, nobody thinks- "

"Cram it Elton-fucking-John, I'm sure your parents are wondering what you're up to too."

"Obviously," he said, only he didn't sound so sure of himself. Marshall ignored the uncertainty. It wasn't his problem. None of this was his problem.

"Good. Then get out. I'm assuming you drove here?"

"Marshall?"

"Mm?"

"I don't want to go home yet," he sounded scared now, but genuinity of tone was just a phrase when it came to him, while manipulation was his motto. Marshall wondered if the Prince truly took him for such an idiot that he would fall victim to this pathetic ploy.

"Aren't you listening to me? If I go home to my own room, I'll be all alone, and I don't particularly like being alone at night."

I'll bet you don't.

Marshall sighed, annoyance as obvious as the stars that now sat upright in the bedsheets of sky.

"Do you really think that's going to work on me?"

"No, but this will."

The prince kissed him, holding him in place next to him on the too old and too saggy mattress.

"I don't want to leave," he repeated, less hesitantly this time, "I want to stay here. With you."

 _But to what end?_ Marshall closed his eyes and pretending like he was dreaming; he could always make the reality he wanted just right in his head. In his head his crush had no ulterior motive whatsoever and was genuinely a good and innocent person, so Marshall needn't feel guilty for letting him hold him. For letting him touch and kiss on his hands and neck and caress his naked body so gently, like it meant something. In his head the concept of guilt could be that of foreign origin in the first place.

But dreams are often disrupted by elements of the natural world, and in this case it was a bright light, seeping through the ceiling and falling down onto him and his closed eyelids.

"Marshy?"

_Fuck._

Marshall opened his eyes again to "awaken" and let the harshly blinking bulb assault them. He wanted to burrow back under the covers and die, let the two of them sort this issue out without him.

"Told you you needed to leave."


	6. Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't noticed, I'm finally getting around to posting the revised chapters I have on fanfic.net and wattpad. And I put another story on AO3? The revision process is hella painstaking on here, so I'm probably done for the night and maybe I'll come back to it next weekend. Just know that not everything I have still up is actually still part of the story or "canon" to this universe, excluding maybe my two most recent chapters. On fanfic and wattpad there's still a few chapters that haven't been revised, but the process has gotten a lot further on those two platforms, if you really can't wait.

Marshall didn't hear a word from his "enemy" the next morning.

Not that he had expected joyful conversation over cheese and crackers, but it was beyond bizarre that the two shared three classes together and the prince had not glanced in his direction or spoken of last night even once. That's a total of 120 minutes shared together in mutual ignorance. And Marshall had meticulously counted out each and every one. He excluded lunch for "technical purposes"(i.e.: he ate his meal alone in a bathroom stall).

_Ordering him around and raising my voice has got to give him an excuse to be a greater dick, to me, right?_ Marshall asked himself, doodling nervously alongside the rings of his faded notebook paper. _Not to mention the whole 'other' incident... He's got enough dirt to take me down forever._ Lee's eyes narrowed as the graphite formed a multitude of abstract swirls along the surface of the sheet of stripes, concentrating heavily on the thick arranged loops that fell messily into place.

_But why should I care? It's good the jerk is leaving me alone. He hurt Simone, and that's cruel even for his standards._ Marshall's pale and shaky left hand reached towards the desk and smeared the design, allowing the dark marks to grow lighter and bleed into one another, creating representation of his current state of mind; dark, light, and generally muddled.

Marsh's bully sat directly in front of him. This positioning allowed a very convenient view of the back of his neck, which in itself was disturbingly better looking than the faces of everyone else in the entire academy. Not that that was saying much.

The prince sat stone still, like a work of art, like the sort of Greek sculpture you find in museums. He probably took some fancy schmancy posture classes when he was younger.

Marshall Lee cursed himself silently for the less than subtle stare fest, and returned to rapidly rubbing his No.2 pencil along the ripping paper. It was one of those erasers where it simply smudged all your broken lines together more than anything else, so erasing anything was essentially a big old waste of everyone's time. He did it anyway.

The pattern of loops faded into a new image Marshall found himself involuntarily sketching along the margin, head meeting limbs, long and slender legs attaching to pristine ankles. "Mister Lee? Care to share your talents with the class?" Marshall froze. He was almost impressed to be receiving this kind of attention from such a distant seat. Not nearly as impressed with why he was receiving it.

The prince had turned back in his desk just the right amount, smirking vainly about the whole ordeal, as if he had some sort of telepathic snitching powers. He just always had to take credit for everything. Marshall nearly swallowed his tongue trying to gulp all his problems away. He quickly folded either hand on top of the spare sheet of notebook paper, looking totally not suspicious at all in the process. Believe it or not, this pattern of movements did not go completely unnoticed, and his chair buddy arched an eyebrow accordingly, gaze flickering downward toward Marsh's quivering hands.

Marshall was now certain that everyone in the room could hear the extremity of his heartbeat. He stood up with a wobble in his leg, crammed his now crumpled creation into his pocket, and loudly proclaimed, "I-I've got to go to the nurse's office!" before scampering out the door. To be fair, this wasn't exactly false. He was probably pre-panic attack.

The dark haired boy had passed by approximately five classrooms and two broom closets (who needs that many broom closets?) before he realized that he was being followed. However, before he could process how to react to this information, the prep kicked the underside of his leg, sending his victim into a classic backwards tumble. -10 Points, for the violence and lack of creativity. Boys and their violence.

He fell with his palms facing outwards, soft parts slapping against unwashed tile. When it came to being violently forced up against random pieces of school property, this wasn't Marshall's first rodeo. He then proceeded to glare at his perpetrator, "How'd you even get out of class?"

"I can do whatever I want is how."

Fair enough. He stuck his hand out for the other, and for a hot second Marshall thought the prince was genuinely looking to help him up. At least, until he remembered his crumple-y, paper-y counterpart. Marshall quickly slipped the scrap into his pocket, clambering back into upright position on his own.

"Is that all you want of me? Curiosity killed the cat you know."

The other just smiled. Took a step closer. Had this hallway always been so empty? Where were all the other skippers and student disappointments?

"Figured you'd prefer me dead."

Marshall could feel his own face reddening, skin hot as summer in July. And those shaky hands... He could run, but in doing so he'd only increase general suspicions. He could try to talk his way out, but in what fictional high school story scenario had that worked, ever? His companion still held his hand out, just waiting. Marshall felt cornered. He felt like a child. He chewed on his lip, took a gaping step back. He could now feel cool metal up against his back. Wrong place to take a step back.

When Marshall was younger he lived by a lake, not right by it, but close enough to reach it in say- a 15 minute walk. He and a couple of the neighbors' kids would go skinny dipping, any day of the season, so long as the water hadn't frozen clean over.

The locker metal was colder than any of those nights, so cold it seemed to sear right through the fabric of his shirt and into his skin, reminiscent of the sensation of dry ice.

"I could take you easy."

Poor phrasing at best. But perhaps the Prince would ignore such irony, for old time's sake. He stepped closer in symphony with his response. To be fair to this description, it is worth mentioning that he also lived and breathed in symphony. Everything on time and miraculously blended together.

"I don't doubt it."

"It isn't even your business."

He was wearing more of a subtle pink look today, nothing more than a ring of velvety fabric around his neck. How did he get away with dressing this way, acting this way? So openly and unapologetically flamboyant. Perhaps it was his boldness in doing so that made doing so possible.

"Not really."

So much for trusty pals Logic and Reason. The nerd was now significantly closer than before. And Marshall had neither the space nor patience to outmaneuver him anymore. He was unsure of whether or not he was being intimidated, or simply out-gayed. He felt a stream of breath drift ever so meekly across his shoulder, breath that wasn't his own. That was eons too close for him. It would be..bad to stay like this.

He felt a hand reach into his pocket..His pocket! Marshall snapped out of his lovesick trance and reached downward, but said pocket was now emptied and he just looked really lame in doing so.

The Prince carefully reopened the paper. Gently. He did everything so gently, except when he didn't. He peeled each fold apart ad if he were picking pale white flower petals, and each and every one was of utmost importance. Marshall chanted along, in his head of course: He loves me not, he loves me not..

He nodded at his findings, as if examining some uppity scholarly thesis statement. Like there was a lot of worthwhile content to assess and analyze, and not just a handful of mindless doodles. Anything to make the moment last longer, anything to make it more dreadfully humiliating.

Marshall tried to grab the paper back, as if it weren't already too late, as if any of it could simply be unseen via sleight of hand. He grabbed more skin than anything else, and just that mingling saw the return of those aforementioned sparks. One might even say he "had it bad".

"I-I have to go to the nurse's office.."

The Prince rolled his eyes at the notion. Could be he thought the statement ridiculous, could be he just wanted to roll his eyes for a bit. After all, he did so greatly enjoy making others feel stupid.

"Bullshit. You took your pills this morning. And you aren't even hyperventilating anymore. When you get all anxiety-y, then we have the chest heaves, but now..." He reached out and laid one flat palm on the other's chest, waiting, "Nothing. Except a suspiciously fast heartbeat. You may be able to fool the occasional middle aged English teacher, but you'll find I know a bit more about the nuances of medical science."

_Always with the bragging._

"Or maybe you just know a bit more about me."

"What was that?"

His gaze, in contrast with the locker door which he had just now slammed his hands against for dramatic effect, was hot. He was waiting to catch Marshall in a lie, daring him really. Waiting for a display of weakness, or at the very least discomfort. But instead of asking again he simply changed the subject.

"You know, I've always thought my eyes to be my greatest physical quality, but based on the... area you designated most of your attention to, I suppose you disagree."

Marshall awkward-coughed his way into a retort. Weakness given. Success! Level complete.

"As if you have any way of knowing that's you."

But the Prince just nodded, real slowly. A stray piece of pink hair flitted betwixt his left eye in response to this movement, and Marshall got this sudden urge to correct it for him. As if he was in any way obligated to. But at the same time, he felt suspicious of even this minor detail, like this had been done on purpose, like he was being teased by even this intricacy. Like he was trying to see just how low he would stoop.

But the other just cooed sympathetically. Fake sympathy, but equal parts titillating in Marshall's book.

"You're right...solely relying on your short term memory like that, you really couldn't bring that much realism to the table. Not your fault really, you just lacked a reference."

His hand was still on the other's chest, but now it was sort of swaying, back and forth, blades of grass dancing blissfully in the wind. He smiled. And Marshall exploded on site. All his hypothetical guts were strewn about the lockers and the tiles, symbolic of his less than hypothetical tidal wave of emotions.

"Want to change that? "


	7. Cell Phone

"Bubba? Your real name is Bubba?"

Marshall suppressed a snicker. With a bumpkin name like that, he'd have assigned himself a nickname too. But on a more serious note, where did it come from? He didn't dress or carry himself like a redneck, and his house definitely wasn't decorated in accordance with such a way of living. Adopted maybe? Marshall was quickly coming to the realization that he knew near nothing about the Candy Prince, and he knew even less of Bubba.

The prince did not bother to look up from his book, flipping another page and revealing more properly inked paper as he responded. He had one leg crossed plainly over the other, making the book balancing feat all the more impressive. Just another physical example of the surreal way in which he carried himself.

"I don't recall giving you permission to look through my things, Marshall."

The dark haired teen wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead, drying the back of his hand off on his faded denim jeans. The same pair he had worn every other day that week. They had a couple of holes in them that broke dress code, but it was nothing that couldn't be concealed by an over sized sweatshirt.

"Bite me."

The beautiful specimen kept his attention locked on the large book poised on his lap, still not looking up from the thin and crackly pages. "I would, but knowing you, you'd probably enjoy it." Marshall smirked at the usage of this particular phrase. _Knowing you_. As if the two of them were close middle school friends that visited shopping malls together, as if they actually knew each other at all. _"I would have hung out with Janice today, but knowing you, you wouldn't have approved."_

After a particularly suspicious extent of silence,Bubba finally glanced up from his large and leather bound companion. He noticed Lee's state immediately.

"What's got you all jubilant? No smiling on the job."

_He doesn't talk like a redneck either._

"In that case, organize your own bookshelf. I'll smile whenever I please." (Which wasn't that often, not that it's relevant either way.) Bubba slipped a slim bookmark into his book, setting it down on his extra padded mattress. He projected every movement with such a smoothness and fluidity, even when alone in his own home.

"Fair enough. Come here."

Marshall dutifully obliged, and was rewarded with a harsh slap to the face.

"Ow."

"I tell you what to do, not the other way around, so you might as well dispose of the attitude while you're ahead. I don't need some social outcast ordering me about."

Marshall grimaced, rubbing at his defaced property. "You call that merciful? Half of my face is red!"

"Boohoo. Want me to kiss it better?" The prep mocked, still so close to Marshall facially that they both were having trouble ignoring a certain persistent pounding resounding from either body. He was joking. He had to be.

Right?

It felt as if the temperature had risen several degrees. A pen drop could be heard, not that there was any reason for holding one in the first place. Marshall stayed in his silence, twisting the invisible ring that graced his pinky finger. His throat was burning and his eyes were burning and the rest of his body all aflame, the idea that one could feel so much of everything just from the anticipation of that thing made him feel less than capable. But if he leaned forward just slightly, he could feel a better sort of feeling…

"Well? Are you going to respond, or simply stand there like the bloody idiot you are?" Marshall struggled to swallow the lump in his throat, feeling flushed as he stared at the other boy's face, but at the same time so transfixed that he could not look away. Words formed in his mind, but none made it to his tongue. Their faces were so close?! How was he alone in the shake of his knees?

Bubba sighed. He had his answer.

"Just get back to work, you've still got half of the shelves left." Marshall Lee headed back in the direction of the large dark bookshelf in the corner of the room, his heart still bouncing upward towards his throat.

"Oh, and don't flip through anymore of my school yearbooks!" The candy prince called. "I look less than pleasant in photographs." Marshall smothered a breathy gasp in response. It was unlike Bubba to be anything but confident when it came to himself, he always seemed so knowing in regards to the fact that he was clever and beautiful. Even if the prince had major insecurities, he never seemed to let them show. He's...being human around me? Or maybe just fishing for compliments, playing pitiful in order to get something from his counterpart. But Marshall was gullible and obedient enough naturally, and any clever strategy would be overkill.

"Really? I thought you looked great in the ones I saw." The pastel-haired teen, who had already opened up his book again, once more set it down. "I beg your pardon?" Marshall fiddled with a ball of lint in his pocket. God forbid he be any more obvious. "I-I mean, ah-" In the nick of time, Marshall was saved by a loud ringing, and he quickly fished the device out of his pocket.

"I'm going to go out in your hall and take this!" Marshall announced, stepping nervously towards the door. He nearly tripped over several piles he made himself in the process.

Bubba was behind him almost immediately, quicker than waves crashing. "No," he said.

Marshall tilted his head curiously. "No?" Marshall was pinned against the door now, heart hammering fast,and he could not help but remember the similar situation at the lockers not so long ago.

"You aren't taking personal calls in my home when you should be working, Marshall, it's the epitome of rude." Marshall was breathing heavily, keeping his eyes intensely focused on his old converse shoes his mother had bought him for his last birthday. They hadn't been planning on buying anything that day since the family was already in debt, but once Simone realized how many holes Marshall had worn into his old sneakers, she had insisted they buy him something to cover his feet with. She had been saving up coupons for the very situation anyways. But Marshall wasn't thinking about his shoes.

"So I can't even answer my phone without you getting up my ass about it?" The prince clicked his tongue, lifting Marshall's chin upward with one soft hand. The other hand crunched him further up against the wall,far enough that he could no longer see even the outline of his shoes. What he could see, when he angled his face to make room, was the ceiling. Marshall wasn't thinking about the ceiling either.

"Talking big is easy when you don't have to look me in the eye, isn't it?" A dare. He was challenging him. Marshall could feel shallow breaths, lapping coyly at the surface of his neck. He took a single breath himself, just in preparation. At last he found himself relying on his dominant arm, sort of pushing himself up and twisting around in one singular motion. But apparently there was less room for this than anticipated, because the minute their eyes met their lips met,hands and bodies following suit.

Lee was pressed so firmly against the bedroom door that has back was suffering from several ugly bruises, but neither of the teens cared in the slightest. His phone still would not cease it's obnoxious ringing, and it frustrated Bubba to such an extent that he ended up plucking it out of Marshall's hand and flinging it across the room to where it could barely be heard, not breaking lip contact for a moment.

Marshall knew it was probably wrong, but once the other boy started with such things, Lee could hardly stop himself.

Marshall eventually pushed the schoolboy away, struggling to regain his breath. "You don't want this. You're just doing it so you can get in my head." He wiped the spittle from his face, and his hands onto those old jeans again. But Bubba just laughed, not nearly as taken aback or as offended as expected to be.

"Is it working?"

He then kissed him again, more gently this time, and Marshall melted once more. The worst part about knowing you're being used, is realizing that you don't care. So he tried not to think on it, his caring or lack thereof, he tried to solely to kiss and to breathe, both of which he believed himself to be no good at.

The books and their shelves just kept sitting there,remaining inanimate in spite of any mood swings and sudden actions the rest of the room's components fell victim to.

The bed sheets,cold on hot skin. Marshall's breathing: buffering His phone still ringing,but it was too far from grasp and would be forced to sit alone in its corner for the time being. Bubba played with his hair, brushing it out of his face, slipping it behind his ear, twirling the spare strands. He had a lot of hair.

"Are you okay,"he whispered,eyes and mouth so pretty and perfect. He was referring to the other night on the front steps. Or in the school bathroom. Or in the school hallway. Or in the cafeteria. Pick one. Marshall tried to think about if he was okay but all he could think of was how Bubba was the prettiest boy he'd ever seen. Maybe not the kindest, certainly the smartest, possibly the sneakiest. And the prettiest. And it's not like he really cared for an honest answer, just some sort of validation. So Marshall nodded for him. "Okay" didn't really matter anyways.


	8. Slushie

Fiona sighed exasperatedly, redialing the number once more, punching in each button with extreme intensity. If the numbers didn't eventually break, her fingers surely would. Still, no answer. Not a single "hello." Ironically, she found herself on the one day out of 365 that Marshall has actually found himself something to do. After the sixth call, she caved.

"Marshall? I need you to get to the hospital right now, the one we went to last time? Right by the Ice Kingdom Slushie Shoppe?" She thought of more and more describers which she then debated sharing, lest a lack of words depict a lack of urgency, or at the least a lack of sincerity, "I went over to visit you, this evening, and your mother-"

Fiona paused, glancing back over her shoulder and through the open doorway, barely able to make out the motionless body in the bed due to the heavy concentration of doctors that were entering and exiting the room, filing in and out in harmony with the coming and going of each minute. She really didn't want to talk to him about this, at least not over some recorded message. She needed him to see her face and her to see his. To make matters worse, her voice had begun to tremble and shake. It was unlike her to react to sadness with such softness.

Fi knew what it was like to have a broken family as well. Her parents had abandoned her when she was very little, leaving her and her mangled cat at some shoddy excuse of an alleyway. Cake had been her only real family growing up, and when her dear pet finally died she had sort of just...given up in regards to caring. Her one exception being the child of Brookeview Hospital's newest patient. The blonde traced her fingers on the furnished white wall, closing her eyes and breathing deeply for a bit to regain her bearings. The roughness of the wall of her choosing bit into her calloused fingertip, but not enough for her to make a bloody mess of herself.

In and out. For her at least, breathing was easy. Something she could control.

Fiona had lost all of her family, and she wasn't willing to allow the same fate for her closest friend.

"I just need you to get over here, okay? It's very important." Fiona clicked her phone shut, allowing the message to end, but even as she was doing so she was already finding it to be shoddy and unfinished. Not good enough to suffice its context.

And with that, she sunk down against the cold tile and rigid walls and cried.


	9. Never Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried.

Marshall woke to find himself in a bed that wasn't his own, immersed in someone else's arms. There was no rooster crow, no buzz of an alarm clock, no flash of light blinding him from a nearby window. Nothing to tell him it was morning. Still he knew it was morning. Just as he knew that something felt right, being here, in another's arms, just laying. And by knowing that he felt right, he knew something must be very, very wrong. And there you have it. A list of all of things Marshall currently knew.

He didn't know any of the important things of course, like what day, even what time it was. Did this room have no clocks at all?

"Bubba," he hissed to the body next to him, the body that was latched on so strongly, as if lapping up his life-force (among other things).

To which the body in question retorted,"Shut up."

His eyes were glued shut, and his voice tumbled in a way that made Marshall wonder if he was really awake.

"I just wanted to know what ti-"

"God, do you even have ears? Go back to sleep."

Perhaps it was the high-quality bed sheets, or the overpriced pillow on which he now rested his head, but Marshall tried his hardest to oblige. He tried to sleep the only way he knew how, laying still with eyes squeezed shut. Music would have helped. Also not having a near-strangers hands all over his naked body. Also not having a mind that was always racing, thinking about how this would all backfire and blow up in his face.

"Do you have any music?"

Bubba groaned, yanking the sheet away from Marshall, "Fine, run around naked like a loon and see if I care. While you're at it you can fix those shelves." He still wasn't really listening. Was he always this impossibly dreadful in the morning? Marshall found himself wanting to test this theory.

Marshall gazed up at the ceiling for a moment, noticing how the creamy coat of paint that graced it looked much softer and mesmerizing than it had just yesterday evening. Inhaling, he found that the air, too, had a different scent about it, one more welcoming to his nostrils. Breakfast maybe? At least in the little things such as these, he could find comfort.

Slipping out of bed he also quickly noted a change in the texture of the carpet, it was softer now then before. Had he made himself at home? Did he even believe in home? What price would he pay for getting so comfortable at the house of the enemy? All legitimate questions. The majority of his clothes he found curled bashfully at the foot of the bed, just as shy and meek as he. Key word: Majority.

"Very funny."

"Mm? What did I say?" He still seemed relatively out of it, but the key word here was seem.

"My underwear."

"No dear, I seriously doubt I said that. It doesn't sound like me at all."

Marshall found himself growing increasingly frustrated by this, submerged once more in the "bad feeling". He didn't have time for this, probably. Simone would be getting worried, he had homework to do. As much as he wanted to stay here and engage in half-asleep quarrels all day, it just wasn't logical. His phone was miraculously still in one piece, despite its little late night adventure. He opened it wide now, screen illuminating his face. In fairness to Bubba, the day was still significantly young, and they wouldn't have school for a few more hours. Maybe he had just been really tired.

Still, Marshall was always tired, and he never did such outlandish things as sleep in when he had guests over. Or..he wouldn't have, if he ever had guests. And wasn't Bubba worried about what his company might get into? Shouldn't he be more on his feet, just for the sake of himself?

_You're overthinking it. He's only human, and he gets tired like everyone else._

Marshall now propped his phone against his ear. The longer it sat there, the more his eyes widened. He wasn't feeling so comfortable anymore. He slapped his phone shut, and once more returned to Bubba's side. He shook his half-conscious body, once. Twice. Three times.

"Hey, I need a ride."

Definitely breakfast he was smelling. His stomach emitted a weak grumble in response. But he didn't have the time, and he didn't have the right. By the fifth shake, Bubba was stirring. He opened his eyes, and Marshall forgot the extent of his urgency for a second. Those goddamn eyes. Definitely one of his best features, or at least the most honest.

"What, Marshall?"he asked, "What more could you possibly want?"

It was a twisted thing to say, as if Lee were the one doing the using and not the other way around. As if Marshall had asked for his life to become this way, or asked for anything really, other than a ride to the hospital. He didn't even have a mean tone about him yet, his voice was still soft enough to match the early hours, but the words stung all the same.

"I need a ride."

"Jesus fuck, it can't be much later than 5:00."

"My mom is-"

But Bubba didn't let him finish. He never did. He had a real problem with interrupting, like any silence that wasn't filled by his own tongue or body just wasn't good enough.

"Ah, I get it. Mommy needs a liquor run."

Marshall recoiled a little at that. It hurt more than expected. Instead of thickening, his skin was raw each and every time. He could already feel the shakes coming in. But he wasn't going to lose it, not hear of all places. He wouldn't give his present company such immense satisfaction as this. And more importantly, he didn't have time. He finished getting dressed with the only clothes he had left.

"Never mind" he said, and then he was gone before his foot even hit the pavement.


	10. The Corpse Hotel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title may be like a horror movie title or something, so my apologies if it is, I wasn't sure and I was thinking: "How can I describe a hospital?" and that's what I came up with. If I'm referencing anything, it was unintentional. 
> 
> (My book title song reference is intentional though, I don't know if I ever mentioned that.)

The room smelled of expo markers and an overabundance of Clorox wipes, as if the ridiculously intrusive scent was meant to distract from the fact that one was in a room that housed living corpses. Marshall's own sweat did its part in countering the original aroma, but it wasn't a pleasant smell either.

Fiona was already there, of course, sitting alongside the hospital bed that took up the majority of the room on its own. (Not to say the bed was very large, but that the hospital room's walls wound so tightly around it that it was a miracle anyone could breathe.) Seeing Lee, she looked up, brushing some of her thick blonde hair out of her face. Marshall searched her eyes for any trace of hope that all would be alright, but found nothing but grief. Which is definitely the sort of reaction you want to see while your alcoholic mother is hooked up to cords and machines in some disgusting hospital, just hanging on to life.

"What happened to you?" Fi asked, both angry and disappointed that it had taken her friend this long to visit his ailing mother and he had not even managed so much as a comb through his hair.

The question sunk its accusingly venomous teeth into Marshall's flesh, and the previous night flashed before his eyes, a blur of emotion and flesh on flesh.

_Guilt._

His gut twisted and tumbled upon itself.

_Go ahead, dipshit. Tell her you couldn't bother answering her calls because you were busy hooking up with assholes._

"You really think now is the time for interrogation?"

She glared in response. "I did all my worrying the night of the incident, so yes, it might as well be. You on the other hand, look like you just ran all the way here. I could have picked you up, you know."

Fiona looked like she hadn't slept, probably because she hadn't. And however hungry he was, he knew that she must be ten times as much. Without even asking he felt certain that in these past hours she had done nothing for herself, not even so much as a bathroom break. She wouldn't, couldn't leave his mother alone. Simone deserved someone like that. Someone better than her son.

Someone with dark eyes and tear stained clothes and an empty stomach, all in her name.

If you measure caring through suffering, this meant Marshall's greatest concern in life was getting laid.

Marshall knew there weren't any words he could say, nothing to mend their current state of affairs. When Fiona got scared, she got angry. When she got sad, likewise. He didn't blame her for lashing out like this, given he'd been the one in the wrong in the first place.

Still, he wished he had something to pass the time, something other than watching the body of his mother shrivel up. His iPod would have been a nice touch. And more importantly, it would have given him an excuse not to verbally justify himself.

Because there was no justification. And all he could do to make things right was sit here in silence until his mother was okay again.

If she had ever been okay in the first place.


	11. Finders Keepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is so cool  
> that you can write chapter summaries and notes and stuff  
> that's why Archive is currently my favorite fanfic writing platform  
> I mean, it's actually maybe not  
> but oh well

It had been a total of 20 minutes since Marshall had left, and Bubba had spent each and every second up until this point just laying in bed, staring down the door that had become his downfall. He braided each number through his mind, the counting was just another tool utilized to put himself at ease after another of life's many disappointments.

He just wasn't used to getting ditched.

Then again, Marshall certainly had his habit of escaping when it came to the other boy, holding on to him for longer than an hour often proved difficult.

 _And I managed a whole night._ The prince smiled proudly to himself, much like a child who had just received his weekly allowance.

Finally, he moved his glance away from the entryway, and began to trifle through his dresser for the first time that morning. He paused as his silky smooth skin brushed upon just what he had been looking for- a pair of worn underpants that were faded red, and so poorly kept condition wise that it was obvious their owner struggled financially. Relieved to see that they were exactly where he had hidden them late last night, the prince smiled some more before closing the drawer, filled to the brim with various articles of clothing that were all not his own.

The antique sliding drawer hardly closed anymore due to its large amount of contents, and so his thin frame had to lean up against the front of it, pushing firmly until it was shut once more. He muttered a little 'oomph' mid push, and then admired his success. He found himself more productive when he took pride in the smallest of accomplishments, while shaming others for their own.

Just as he peeled himself away from the dresser, the pastel toned bedroom door swung open, so carelessly so that the knob collided with Bubba's wall, and wedged itself deliberately into the pretty pink paper. Without so much as a glance in the direction of the commotion, the prep knew exactly who had entered his room.

"Flame."

His real name was unknown to the both of them, not that it mattered.

The young "butler" looked up from the damaged door knob, blood rising to his cheeks as he spit out apologies. "I-I'm awfully sorry sir, it's just, well, I thought-" Bubba sighed. Flame came from a bad family, and the prince's family had bailed him out of the whole gang situation and promised to keep his presence away from the authorities, but only as long as he served their household and proved himself to be useful. (Bubba had conjured up the stipulations himself.) Yet the boy had not a graceful bone in his body, and was constantly damaging valuables with his clumsy demeanor.

Placing one slipper-ed foot neatly in front of the other, Bubba made his way to the door. "We have to reapply some papering, and probably have a chunk of the wall replaced thanks to your foolishness." The teen continued to blush, running one of his trembling hands through his own messy hair just keep from fidgeting. "I really am sorry, sir, I forget that your doors are-"

Bubba had a knack for interrupting people with kisses, and although it was often mistook for some sort of adorable display of affection, this action was mainly just the easiest way he knew of to get people to shut up.

All the bullshit words jumbled around in his head, and it was not as if anyone's words outside of his own were actually worth listening to.

Of course, there came along with kissing, the grand misconception that every physical display meant something sappy and sentimental and of any value at all.

For instance, his little manservant kissed him back because he thought it was love, his father had kissed him because he assumed if the physical affection was being returned on Bubba's part then it couldn't really be a crime. But of course, they were both wrong.

And Marshall? Even the prince himself wasn't so sure about that scenario, the others has been so predictable, all so easy to silence with just a couple of sweet gestures. But Marshall was different, most likely because when Bubba was in his presence he had so much trouble controlling his own self and his heartbeat that he had little to no time left to focus on analyzing his opponent as he always did. And more importantly, Marshall was still capable of administering rejection, a concept that was still alien to his counterpart.

The thought of him got caught up in his mind, and Bubba was unaware that his body had frozen up completely.

"Sir?" Flame wiped the saliva from his chin, staring at his "master" with pitifully pleading eyes, yet Bubba refused to directly meet his gaze, glancing instead at the mess he had created. Flame was up against the damaged door, shirt already torn open and visible markings on his neck. He looked insanely out of breath, but still was foolishly more concerned with Bubba's well-being than he was the fact that he was likely about to have another asthma attack.

It was becoming mechanical.

"Shit." The child exclaimed, smacking himself firmly on the forehead. "Shit, shit, shit."

"A-are you alright?"

"Get someone to look at the door, I'm heading out. We'll continue this later tonight."

The last part was a lie, but Bubba had learned that all the people in love, or even just victims of infatuation, are into those sort of things. Assurance, promises. Hope, and other schoolboy devices that in actuality did more harm than help.

His butler likely said something in response, but the prince's mind left his home before his body had even exited the bedroom. He had to find Marshall.

He had to punish him for making him feel this way.


	12. Father and Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was going to take place in the hospital again, but once I got started with all the material from the last chapter I decided I had to elaborate on Bubba's backstory because he is important, I think I may have been focusing too heavily on Marshall's settings and such, and where's the fun in that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on a playlist for this story because why not, but I've only got songs for Chapter Five and Eleven (Eleven is still on the table, too.) so if any of you want to help me out feel free to, I'm discovering I'm not so good at this.

Mr. Gumm stared at his blaring television, watching the colors fly across the screen and enthusiastically zigzag their way into his mushy brain. Mr. Gumm loved his television. (Even the pesky, screeching commercials that came at you with too many lines and waves all at once.) It understood him and did as he said, without crying out like that horrendous boy.

Ah yes, the boy. Gumm looked down at his shiny golden wristwatch,one of his few items of any value, hoping school would soon be over. For even indulging in television grows boring and uninspired over time. And though he hated the boy, the boy who was weak and fragile like his whore of a mother, he still tasted, so, so sweet. And who could pass up such an offer?

The trill of his aging doorbell set him on his feet, unlocking the front door and sliding it open to allow his companion inside. Gumm suppressed a growl, one that was equally as lustful as it was hateful. He was wearing his bright blue rain boots today, despite it being summer, simply because he adored both rain boots and the color blue. And is if that wasn't enough of a fashion statement, the ensemble had been topped off with his bright blue winter coat, the baggy one that reminded Gumm of those clowns at the circus, too colorful and far too loud. Like they had something, anything, that was worth showing off.

As soon as the door closed, Gumm was on him, a lioness craving satisfaction from fresh meat.

"I missed you," the rigid voice hissed, just before the man's tongue invaded his mouth and overwhelmed his senses. Of course, the boy was not entirely dimwitted. He knew that he was not wanted specifically, it was only his few qualities and accessibility that made him a frequented target. But he did not dare point this out, lest he willingly make the situation even worse.

And he tried his hardest to remain silent as the savage worked away, he always did, but at one point the pain became too intense for one child to bear, and words slipped out before he could stop himself. "Please," he panted, choking on his own breath, "I'm very tired and if you could just be a little more gentle-" To which the tall man grimaced, his crystal blue eyes popping like angry fireworks.

"What the hell did you just say?"

. . .

His father took him out to ice cream to make up for the new bruises, and he kissed his son when they went into the bathroom to wash their sticky hands, carefully so as not to disturb his already sore and split lips.

"I love you," he said. "You are delicious, my very own Candy Prince."

"Okay," Bubba responded, because he understood that's what he was supposed to say.

"No, not okay. Now you say it too."

"I am your candy prince."

And tomorrow would be just the same, tomorrow Gumm would watch his beloved television and check his golden wristwatch, tomorrow Bubba would come home and be punished for something, and finally they would both go out to ice cream, and look at the stars through the shopkeeper's large windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xxx I figured I'd elaborate on the whole kissing his father thing that was mentioned in this last chapter. As he gets older, Bubba grows more accustomed to it and kind of learns how to control his father with his seduction, which is really fucked up but it's what he was getting at with the whole "kissing people to shut them up" thing. Oh, but most important. Sexual abuse, rape, harassment, and pedophilia are all not okay things and they happen daily and it is disgusting. So I'm leaving some links to support hotlines and informative things and I hope that's helpful to you guys. Also, don't ever let yourself be forced into secrecy because of some fucked up victim shaming shit, okay? You are all important and don't let some monsters take that away from you. Also, I'm leaving my number and kik address, I know that's probably risky but I don't care, if it helps you guys it is worth it, so if any of you ever have any problems, not even just revolving around this subject specifically, or just need to talk for some reason or want support or a friend I AM HERE FOR YOU ALL. I'm no professional anything and I'm definitely not the one to see if you're needing some sort of professional or legal advice surrounding things but I am here to help and support you if that's what you need or want, I know that sounds so cheesy and dumb or whatever but I want you all to live happy and safe lives, and if I can help in any way I fucking will. xxxxx
> 
> Love you,
> 
> Writer
> 
> Links:
> 
> Sexual Assault Helpline ?gclid=CPuz3YvQ5ccCFYcdgQod1owOFw
> 
> Rape, Abuse, and Incest
> 
> Domestic Violence/Abusive Relationships . ?gclid=CMO6strQ5ccCFRAjgQodEZ8F_g
> 
> Some Law Firm Specializing in Sexual Abuse, They Look Legit But I don't Know Much About Lawyers So Sorry If I'm Wrong
> 
> A Website With Lots Of Kittens So That You Find All The Happiness You Deserve /
> 
> A Very Nice Gay Merman Anime For You To Enjoy /Anime/This-Boy-Caught-a-Merman-Sub
> 
> And my Kik: NinjaMonkey6240
> 
> (I promise I'm not actually a twelve year old fuckboy but I guess that's up to you decide.)
> 
> UPDATE: I CANNOT GET THE LINKS TO SHOW UP EVERY TIME I FINISH REPASTING THEM THEY END UP DISAPPEARING IDK IF IT'S THIS SITE OR WHAT BUT I'LL PUT THEM O N TUMBLR AT LEAST GUYS IM SO SORRY I HAVE FAILED (my tumblr is just lyingtoyourinsticts, and i have a tag i post under, "helpandhotlines")


	13. Waves

Marsh gazed upon the hospital bed forlornly, not muttering a single syllable. His breathing was deep and heavy, like the slow rise of ocean water just before the crashing and breaking of its waves. His own crash had yet to arrive, but best believe it was on its way. Neither he nor Fiona spoke, and the blonde longed to hug him and stop him from clenching his fists until it appeared the vessels were about to pop, but at the same time she was afraid, afraid because the last time she had tried to help him through something like this it hadn't ended so well for either of them, afraid because she did not want to hurt him even more.

But she had to know why this had happened, she was too curious to remain silent for long.

Feet planted right beside him, she drew in a deep breath herself and placed one toned arm over Marshall's shoulder.

"I was on my way to visit you guys for the first time since the big move, but I showed up and you weren't there and your mom-your mom wasn't quite cold yet." Marshall's fists tightened, digging his nails into the fleshy canvas of his already scarred palms. "She was...there were so many empty cans and she kept um, she kept saying things…"

At the point Marshall had also begun clamping down on his own tongue with his jaws and teeth, blood began to leak out of new tongue wounds and he swallowed it all so no one would notice, the metallic sweetness dripping down the inside of his throat. Stomach full of pennies of his own invention.

Eventually, Marsh gave Fi what she had wanted all along. A response. Evidence that he was listening, and willing to talk about all the things he did not want to deal with at that moment. Marshall's eyes were fixated on the hospital room curtain near the door, and he studied the ugly green swirls that graced the cloth with unmoving eyes.

"What sorts of things." It wasn't really phrased as a question, but Marshall didn't care.

"Something about... her little boy losing his innocence, she said something else I think, about a new friend... Marshall, is something going on I need to know about?"

Either way, how was this her business?

The red fluid continued to pour out as Marshall continued to swallow; more and more of the vulgar tasting "drink" barely made its way down his throat. It probably did not help that he continued to gnaw on the damaged area, the pace of his teeth colliding onto muscle grew faster with each word his best friend spoke. It hurt,but no more than this conversation,or the ones like it that were sure to follow.

It's all my fault... Not only was I not there, I'm the reason that she's-

"I don't think this is a good time to ignore me, Marsh."

Images flashed through his mind like a hurricane of photographs, him letting Bubba into his home, his smooth and pristine skin brushing along Marshall's baggy tee-shirt, Bubba's smile and his laugh and the noise he made when-

_Oh god. I ruined everything over a cheap lay._

Then again, Bubba was more than that, wasn't he? It was... _different_. More nuanced.

Marshall had finally stopped biting on his tongue. He worked on his breathing again. Something like 5-7-5 in regards to seconds spent, maybe a little more, maybe a little less. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. His personal haiku.

"What you want me to say isn't the same as what you want to hear, you know?"

But apparently that wasn't what Fiona wanted to hear either. She didn't like things with nuance, she liked to live in black and white, good and bad, wrong and right. Fancy words and fancier concepts just made her cross.

"What does that even mean?"

She squinted like she was staring at something incredibly bright, she toyed with the one sliver of hair that always found its way out of her ponytail. She was nearly as tense as he was.

As Marshall struggled to find words he found his jagged teeth cutting back into the newly developed gash that graced his tongue, like the words were inside the bits and pieces of his mouth, like he could find what he was looking for inside of himself. His heartbeat grew to be more rapid as he struggled to breath just through his nostrils.

"It means I have to go to the bathroom," he said. And so he did. He flung himself over the sink, and opened his mouth wide for the drain to see. Red-hot poured out in waves,hitting the white before slipping away out of view. The crash. His mouth tasted both bitter and sour and the cut felt deep, but he didn't dare face himself in the mirror, and risk throwing up at the sight of it. As you might have guessed, he was prone to throwing up. As he was most bodily dysfunction.

When he was done with the sink, he just kind of sat there for a bit, wedged up against wall and bathroom tile. His hands tracing circles into the ground. Lack of hygiene at its finest. If Bubba had been there, he would have scolded him for that,sitting among all the germs.

The thought of this made him smile.

But only a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna do more shit for this chapter but I didn't, because my mind is all over the place. Do any of you like Kpop girl groups? (Outside of Girl's Generation) I'm a fan of Mamamoo, Ladies Code (Rip EunB and RiSe), Sistar, HelloVenus, AOA bc Jimin, 2ne1, Kara, Hyuna, Girl's Day, Afterschool, Orange Caramel, etc. That was a completely unrelated question, but I'm wondering if anyone has any recommendations. Eh. New chapter coming that I KNOW I'll have up really soon because I've been mentally writing it for three days now.
> 
> -Writer
> 
> P.S. I love you all very much, thank you for reading this gay bullshit.


	14. Medic

"You don't have to be here, you know." The words had a harsh tint to them, although it's most likely that they weren't intended to be taken negatively.

Fiona-who was still busying herself with gathering empty beer cans and candy wrappers-nodded. "I know that. I can technically do whatever I want with my time." Still, she grabbed can after can from the soiled floor with a single naturally tanned hand, tossing each and every one of them into the large black trash bag supported by her other extremity. Erasing everything with each toss. Emptying things by filling them. Insert other forms of wordplay here.

Fiona had been cleaning around the house for the past two hours, and whenever Marshall mentioned she was free to return to her own home and do literally anything else, she just scolded him for his incompetence.

"If I leave, you might do something stupid, like drive back to the hospital, or jump off a cliff. And if you have another panic attack like the one that got us kicked out of your mother's room, you're going to need someone here with you."

So Marshall had surrendered for the most part, and sat on the newly visible couch, legs hung over the arm as he slurped up his expired Capri-Sun.

Fiona gave him the stink eye for sitting on the arm instead of the actual cushion, but she thought better of verbally bringing it up. Things were tense enough as is. In between actions she occasionally wiped her grubby hands on her periwinkle gym shorts, leaving behind a trail little gray streaks each time.

Gross.

A sharp knock on the door took them both by surprise. It was then repeated, confirming in both of their minds that it hadn't been imagined.

"I'll get it!" Marshall shouted, not that there was any reason to shout, some things just seem like they are supposed to be said in such a way. He had a good idea as to who it was, seeing as though he had about zero other friends, and hadn't ordered pizza in several weeks.

The door unlocked and opened and Marshall's heart shot up out of his chest, leaving him to choke as it made its way past his less than large mouth.

Even though this was definitely not Marshall's first altercation with Bubba, he could never quite get used to how stunning the other boy was. Lame as it may be, he could never not be awestruck by such a presence. Even so plainly dressed. Even with an expression as angry as the one he wore now. Dare he say especially with an expression as angry as the one he worn now? Marshall tried to regather his jumbled up thoughts as he recalled how everything was kind of the fault of the boy he saw before him.

_Well, I can be mad at him and still think he's pretty._

Marshall wasn't left much time to debate this, because once the front door had been closed the beautiful teen had his tongue down Marshall's throat. For the sake of reaction cheeks were aflame, his legs quivering, and his hands..where was he supposed to put his hands?

He cheeks grew even warmer after being shown where to put his hands. His used juice pouch fluttered neatly to the floor, something he was sure Fiona would reprimand him over later.

_Well, I can be mad at him and still make out with him a little bit._

But when Marshall heard his zipper, he called it quits for the evening. He didn't think he was rough so much as instinctive, but the noise of the gesture seemed to say otherwise, as well as the following wince that Bubba tried his best to conceal. This seemed to surprise Bubba just as much as himself, and his face grew angrier and more contorted then before. Still pretty, but meaner. He wiped the saliva from the corner of his lips and then flicked it off his hand accordingly. It hadn't been intentional, to let him crumple against the wall behind him like a paper doll. Marshall himself had been a victim of much more violent pushes. But none of this information seemed like twas going to soften the blow.

"I mean, you could've just tried using your words, it's not as if I'd rape you."

He seemed so much more offended than before. Than usual. And angry. Why was he always so angry? Obviously Marshall hadn't meant any offense, he just wasn't in the habit of exhibitionism. But there was no further time allotted for playing psychologist, because that certain someone Marshall had been worrying about cleared her throat.

Of course she had been there the whole time. Because nothing can ever go right, right?

"I'm gonna make a wild guess here and assume this is the "friend"."

Marshall scratched at the back of his head. He didn't have time for things like this, he had school tomorrow and a dying mom to attend to. There were a million things he'd rather be doing than having this conversation, and several of them involved invoking serious harm upon himself.

"Unfortunately, he's really got to be going, so.."

He tried to direct Bubba back from whence he came, but the prince was thinking of other things. He didn't seem to have noticed Fiona at all.

"Marshall. Open your mouth."

Credit where it's due, it wasn't the reaction Marshall had been expecting. You'd think a person can only surprise you so many times... He chewed his lip and he cleared his throat.

"Now is hardly the time for-"

"Just do it."

Marshall wasn't sure why he obliged, though he wasn't sure why he did anything for anyone at this point. Why should he? Anticipation wriggled around like worms buried in his gut.

"Tongue."

The prince stepped close again for a better look. He traced his index finger along the curve of the gash, so gently, gentler than Marshall had ever been touched. But his face remained stone still and serious. There are few things more embarrassing than standing upright with someone else's finger somewhat in your mouth. One of those few is having someone watch while it happens.

"Yes," he mused, "that's what I thought I felt."

But Marshall found the bizarre timing to make this interaction suspicious. You just had to rampage it out for a sec to be sure.

"I'm still here you know."

"Yeah Fiona, we hear you."

Bubba rolled his eyes like, can you believe her? But Marshall was just wondering how he knew her name.

"It's a laceration."

His face had softened up a bit. Suddenly he wasn't so angry. The only plus side of his short fuse seemed to be the speed at which he became all burned out. While Marshall could be angry for a long period of time, it always remained just under the surface. Bubba was his opposite in this way, capable of being outright furious, but only for passionate spurts of time.

"Did this happen last night?" he asked, eyes earnest. He seemed to feel guilty. Marshall considered using this to his advantage, but he didn't think he was a vindictive enough person.

"This morning, when you couldn't be bothered to wake up." Okay, maybe he was.

"My god, don't tell me that's where you were. I think I'm going to be sick."

Bubba smiled at that, like nothing brought him more pleasure than disgusting Marshall's best friend. Like he expected a gleaming trophy to appear in his hands any minute now. "Here's hoping she chokes on it," he whispered. But Marshall didn't think it was all that funny.

"Anyway, I'm going to go write you instructions for this, because lord knows your ADD will be the death of you."

Marshall felt..weird being doted over in such a manner, being randomly babied by the person who up until that moment had just been trying to get into his pants. What did it mean? There had to be some ulterior motive, even if it was simplistic as say, gaining his trust to make breaking his heart that much easier. But there was no need to go to such lengths, Marshall was already impressed enough by people remembering his birthday. Setting the bar so high was a waste of everyone's time. Marshall chewed on his tongue some more as he further considered this.

With Bubba off roaming for scraps of whatever, Fiona felt comfortable in piping up again. Marshall kept forgetting she was there.

"How do you know him?" It was an accusatory question, not like a "how do you know the bride?" or "how did you meet your husband?" If anything, it was more of a "why" than a "how". Fiona wasn't looking for an explanation. She was looking for an admittance of guilt.

"How do you know him?"Marshall snapped back. He chewed on his tongue some more, which was becoming an increasingly stupid thing to do, considering how much it already ached without the additional pressure. But he didn't want to answer these questions, nor did he want to stand around like an idiot while his non-boyfriend got off playing doctor.

Bubba came rushing back with a scribbled on sheet as well as a wet rag.

"You're just hopeless, aren't you," but he said it a whole lot nicer than those words are supposed to sound, "And what happened to mommy dearest?"

It was Fiona's turn again, because she decided it was. She was getting quite tired of the uninvited house guest taking charge of things, as if he had any right to do anything ever.

"Hospital, not thanks to you." As if there were some unspoken contest over who could have the meanest voice.

And Bubba took the bait, though he was two busy with the rag to meet her eyes. Or maybe that was the point. He stroked Marshall's hair as he spoke, and again it projected this uncomfortable ambiance, like he were more a pet than he were a person. It certainly didn't help that Marshall was so unused to this treatment, most didn't really care if he was hurt or not, happy or sad. And as far as he knew, Bubba didn't either. So what was the point? Were they playing charades?

"If only someone in our present company could have gone and got sick in her place, eh?"

Fiona was really getting flustered, she wasn't used to being argued with, and it seemed something about their present company just especially struck a nerve.

"If only someone hadn't set her on that path in the first place!"

_Sure, let the person with the bleeding mouth play mediator._

Bubba finally stepped away from Marshall, and Lee wasn't sure whether to be relieved or frightened. He stared Fiona dead on now, finally coming top meet her cold blue eyes with eyes of his own. Something about the calmness he retained made him all the more intimidating. It made him harder to read.

"If you're looking to fight me, you might as well say so."

"For some reason I think that's what you're hoping for."

For whatever reason, this statement thoroughly got under his skin. He was reverting back to the creature that Marshall had seen before, the one that had knives in his eyes and a mouth that only spoke cruelty. It was astonishing how fast such a metamorphosis could occur, how spontaneous the words and actions that changed him appeared to be. He stepped closer to Fiona, who was now the only target of his attention.

He was cute and all, but Marshall didn't believe him to be beyond murder. And if someone didn't do something, they'd both be having a pretty bad time in the near future.

Bubba steadied his hands, as if he were readying himself to use them.

"If you're implying what I believe you're implying, so help me I'll-"

"Do nothing."

"What?"

Marshall wasn't certain which of the two had retorted, due to the fact that he was, once more, staring at his shoes. Eye contact was just the worst.

"Do nothing," Marshall repeated, "it's not worth it." When he spoke, bits of blood and tap slunk down his throat accordingly. At least his stomach didn't have taste buds. He didn't know which of the three of them he was referring to, but they all seemed to take it personally.

And then Marshall put the cloth back into his mouth, because those couple of words had gotten blood droplets on the floor.


	15. Teeth

His voice stuck into the little boy's flesh like sharpened talons, sticking and slicing in near equal portions. "This again, boy?" Gumm hissed, fists full of a shirt collar that wasn't his own. "What have I told you about wearing that sort of clothing?" Despite the atrocity of such accusations, Bubba cleverly held his tongue, staring back at the angry man with as much composure as his tiny body could manage. If you stare at someone long enough, you can begin to stare through them. This strategy had spared the youngster on more than one occasion.

" _That woman_ bought you this, didn't she?" The small child still spoke not a word, debating whether or not it was even worth shutting his father up over. He absolutely despised the way Gumm spoke of his mother, refusing to even refer to her by her name, or without a look of pure, unwholesome, disgust sewn tight onto his face like some preposterous quilting job.

She herself wasn't that lovely of a woman, but she had also never so much as laid a hand on Bubba. For the most part, this was the way in which he rated those around him, on the basis of how much physical pain they caused.

"Pink," he spat, "It's the color of queers, you know. They're going to take it as an invitation, and they're going to try and take you away from me."

To deconstruct his statements, to try and give them any sort of meaning or relevancy, would be a wast6e of time. It was just another one of his many delusional ramblings, another idea that he had gotten into his head God knows how. And for whatever reason, managing these worries fell onto the shoulders of his eight year old son. So he tried to speak with subtle precautions, lest his tone imply a ripe attitude.

""I really don't think-"

Gumm released his hold on the boy, watching his tiny erroneous body slip from the aging man's fingertips like soap from a water stricken palm. His son appeared to wince as he hit the solid ground, and the pained noise was an electric shot to the man's heart. Violence was his narcotic. The wanting. The taking. The control of it all.

"Exactly. You don't think. You need someone to spoil and baby you, and when they do, you still can't keep that pretty ass of yours in line. Do you want to get punished, is that it?"

The father retrieved the mass of tangled limbs off of the floor, forcing the boy back into a more graceful standing position. "Do you enjoy the pain?" He taunted, shoving his face close to the boy's so that his putrid fish breath could be easily inhaled, spewing bits of slimy spittle onto his son's pale forehead and cheeks. But spit was nothing to contrast to all else he would be and had been subject to.

Bubba shook his head as well as he could given the lack of space, not trusting his voice to answer for him. Voices too often tremble and shake and betray their owner anyways.

But Gumm just laughed in response, more saliva slipping off the tip of his tongue and drenching his victim in bodily juices. As Bubba lifted his arm to clear his face, the cold and scratchy fingers latched onto his thin wrist, jerking it counter-clockwise until there was a loud snap and his hand hung loose.

_"Liar."_

His father always kept a small pocketknife on him, he used to whittle when he was younger, and for this reason he had gotten into the habit of "arming" himself at all times. It had never been meant for the boy, he would later swear, but in the moment, it was awfully convenient. The young lad was still staring wide eyed at his first broken limb, and for that reason he was not fully aware of the gleaming weapon's presence until it was buried in his stomach (among other places) and his sweet red blood hit the hardwood floor.

The man shook his head, then wiping the soiled knife on Bubba's shirt, or at least, the pieces of it he now held as his own.."I'm disappointed in you, boy. When you don't scream like you're sorry, it's hard to tell if I have made my point clear." The deep gashes in the boy's mouth made it hard to speak so he only remained exactly as he was left while the scolding continued, wrapping his arms as best he could round his cold and semi naked body.

The boy felt something small floating around the insides of his bloody mouth, and as his slit tongue brushed across its exterior, he realized it was a tooth. The adult one that had just finished growing in.

He spit the tooth unto the ground, watching it bounce several times as a thin trail of blood followed.

Not to worry, there would be more where that came from.

"Stop wearing pink, all the faggots are gonna target you. Is it that hard to follow a simple rule? Do you think you're better than my advice?"

The tooth had teetered off to one side, lying with its legs positioned toward the both of them.

There would be more.

Gumm left to watch his television then, just as he loved to do.


	16. Burning

Marshall's eyes were fully open as he stroked the metallic beast's interior, struggling to keep his jaw from falling downward. "This car…"

Bubba sighed, and the sound fell perfectly as usual from his exfoliated soft lips. "Marshall, if you start jacking off to my vehicle, I swear I will toss you out as soon as we hit the highway." Bubba was likely pushing the speed limit but the car's interior seemed to pass through time like a drunken sloth battling a tub of molasses, and the only way to verify the vehicle's speed seemed to be peering through those glossy windows in order to catch a glimpse of the quick flashes of your constantly changing surroundings.

"I think," Marshall breathed, gluing his eyeballs to the clear glass in order to distract from the prince's beautiful head and neck, which looked astonishingly angelic even from the back, "that this is the first time you have called my be my first name ever, and I wonder what it means."

Like an obedient little driver, Bubs kept his eyes focused on the road, pursing his lips. They seemed to speed up significantly. "It means Lee, that you should stopping asking stupid questions and simply be grateful I'm letting you enter my home in the first place."

"After what you've done-"

"What _I've_ done?! Really?" The prince slammed violently on the breaks, sharply turning into his driveway just before doing so. Marshall had never gotten past his learner's, but he was pretty sure you were supposed to slow before every turn, not the other way around. "Never mind any of it. You're right, I'm a total ass. Are you going to come inside or what?"

The last time Marshall had visited, he really hadn't gotten to take a proper look at the place. The large house resembled more of a humble mansion, the high-piled brick walls seemed to look down on Marshall's existence, as if he would never be powerful enough to deserve that sort of structure himself, as if he could never be so appalling in nature. And the walls were right.

The entrails of the home were even more gorgeous than the exterior, and Lee was greeted by a pleasant hue as he stepped into the widened doorway. The entire entry hall, as well as the first room it branched off into, were painted entirely a pale shade of-"Pink." Marshall suppressed a thin smile, brushing his fingers a long the pastel wall. Perfectly smooth. "You really love pink, huh?" Bubba laughed, holding a hand over his mouth to remain proper through the awkward yet endearing noise. And then, he said nothing. Like he just didn't know what to say. Which struck Marshall as a bit odd, considering his partner was full of words of all sizes and implications, and usually felt no shame in using them. It just didn't add up, acting like this. But he didn't push it.

On the other hand, his counterpart had no such filters.

"Stop standing there and gawking like an idiot. You always do that, and I hate it."

"Oh, excuse me, sorry we can't all look like gorgeous super models."

"I said "like an idiot", Lee, never once did I call you unattractive." Bubba brushed the raven-haired boy's cheek with his thumb, next catching his entire face with clean yet cold palms and diving desperately into his mouth, like he had left something deep down the last time they had touched. Marshall obliged up until he heard the peeling of a jean zipper, and then he drew back. Always so fast,Marshall thought, though he wasn't sure which one of them it was in reference to.

"This is...um...not really what I came over for..." A confused expression dawned on Bubba's face. He did condescending, not confused. Perhaps Marshall had misread it.

"This isn't what you wanted when you said we needed to talk?"

Marshall fastened his zipper, blushing furiously. "Of course not!" he exclaimed, patting down his flyaway hair and re-buttoning his cheap silver flannel. The last couple buttons were matched wrong by the time he was finished, and it was so hot that he would have done better just to take it all the way off. But doing so would have been counterproductive. "Since when is "we need to talk" automatically assumed code for sex?"

Bubba froze, suddenly fascinated with a scenic photograph hung halfway through the first hallway. The image depicted a sunset hitting the sandy beach, and it was beautiful if a bit cliche. He seemed to be really working away at that question, which certainly hadn't been intended as a thinker. Speechless once again. His brow was furrowed, and he wouldn't meet Marshall's eyes. Something must be wrong.

"You're right, of course. I-I don't know what came over me, no one in their right minds would ever truly think... You know what would be nice right now? A snack. Go into the kitchen and fix me something, I'll join you in a moment."

"And your kitchen is…."

The prince fiddled with the collar of his pale sweater involuntarily, swallowing the dry lump residing in his throat. He was still pretty off, in comparison the whole ride there. Something Marshall had done must have set him off.

_Holy shit, he's nervous_. And that made Marshall nervous. Was there something he was supposed to be being nervous about? He hadn't gotten the memo, and he usually always did when it came to these things. He wondered if playing along with such a mood would help, or only make things worse. He wondered if he had made a mistake in coming here. Alone.

"Straight down the hallway to the left of you. The one with all the cooking things."

...

The kitchen knife slammed against the cutting board after each individual word, separating them for allowed emphasis. "So, my mother's in the hospital now." The prince sat primly at the kitchen table, ever so daintily swaying his long legs back and forth. He had something in his hands. Phone maybe? It was hard to tell from a distance. Regardless, he seemed to have regained both his composure and his general spitefulness.

"And this concerns me why?"

I don't know, because maybe you have a heart?

The blade sliced more quickly, slipping past its target and slicing into Marshall's pointer finger. He'd be having a phalange flavored snack by the time he was finished. "The night she saw us... In her mind, I'm still just a little kid, and little kids don't do those sorts of things."

The prince's posture stiffened. Marshall couldn't see the clench of his jaw, but he could imagine it. Something had set him off again? One really had to walk on eggshells.

"What's your point, Lee, or is this just another one of your word-wasting rants?"

Because Marshall was totally the rantier of the two. All these questions, none of which could be answered to satisfaction. Bubba didn't ask out of need for knowledge, he asked out of need for reaction. And reaction he would get. Marshall's hand trembled a bit as he sliced and diced the final segment. The kitchen had one clock as far as Marshall cold see, and it tick-ticked betwixt each second of silence, smothering the gaps.

Marshall placed his bloody finger in a paper towel, squeezing it tightly. "We put her in the fucking hospital! She drank too much because of what happened, and I wasn't even there when she was wheeled away to the fucking ER. Do you have no compassion at all?"

Apparently not. Bubba didn't answer, sticking out his hands in order to examine his nails, despite them obviously being perfectly clean and as neatly trimmed as always. "Have you been treating your tongue? It is important, you know."

The silver blade slammed against the tile, and Marshall did not bother picking up or assessing it for damage. "Are you even listening to me? She could die! And because of you I couldn't stop myself and I just-I just-"

Marshall began to breathe in and out more rapidly, clutching at his own clothing as he struggled to keep his own frenetic panting to a minimum. This shouldn't happen to him, not here, not in front of-but as his knees buckled underneath him and his heart attacked his innards he realized that it was too late, and his mind went red. Of all the times..

Bubba was it his side in an instant. In trying to breathe he only made his breathing worse. Why did he always forget this?

"Are you okay? ..What can I do?"

But Lee was beyond registering voices as he sat on the ground in a helpless heap, releasing the occasional choked sob and desperate gasp. Both his heart and lungs were on fire, and he tried to speak but his body did not oblige.Most of all he felt embarrassed, given the time he could have excused himself but now it was two late, now he was hacking up all of his oxygen like a blubbering idiot. _My mom's going to die because of me._

Every time this happened, it felt like death was sure to follow. Marshall's limbs grew limp as he shook weakly, somehow managing to still muster the strength in his arms and hands to scratch slightly at himself. Nothing with intention, just something to do. He needed something to do.

The prep took note of Lee's wandering hands almost immediately and his face grew stern. Bubba knelt downward on his knees, snatching the extremities away and grasping meekly onto either wrist. "Don't beat yourself up. I mean, it's probably a bad idea." Bless Bubba's heart for thinking the action would do any good. It had the opposite affect. One hand collided with his face, not out of intention but out of desperation. He needed his hands he needed his hand he needed his hands. But Marshall's mouth wouldn't allow the words to form, so instead his shaking rate increased exponentially, and he hyperventilated with more vigor.

Eventually Bubba seemed to get the picture, because he dropped both hands and backed away. When he returned, there was something new in his hand..a glass of water. Marshall was grateful, though he couldn't say it. His breaths quivered, slower then faster again. But he reached for the water.

"You're fucking with me Marshall, you couldn't hold anything shaking like this. Here."

He tilted the cold solid up against the other's lips until the cold liquid poured out, not meeting his eyes as he did so. Slowly, lest it run over the rim and dribble down to his stomach. For short bits hew would pull it away, on the chance that choking on water was more fatal than choking on air.

_Is he supposed to get like this?_ Bubba wasn't sure how this was supposed to look, all the medical afflictions in the world and he'd never had a panic attack before. Part of him was angry at Marshall, for going through less than he had and still managing to be equally if not more mentally fucked. But another part was just made at himself, for lacking the experience. If he could feel it he could fix it. The third part was just worried.

Marshall croaked loudly, finishing off the sound with a resonating cough, one so forceful a person might expect him to hack something up with it. Bubba chewed on his lip, looking much less angelic and more like a very nervous human being, the sort of person you could see on the cover of a billboard or People Magazine and know without a doubt their face had not been photo-shopped. A "mother" face, really.

"Simone," Marshall croaked finally. Although in-between slowly declining hyperventilating gasps and jagged coughs, the word sounded much more like "siooooan" than anything else.

Bubba nodded, running his lean fingers through Marshall's messy locks and scratching soothingly at his scalp. "That is your mother's name, yes?" It's possible that Lee was responding with a weak nod, but it's also quite possible that his trembling body was merely moving his head as well.

"I'm sorry about the thing with your stupid mother, alright? That wasn't intentional. I don't...I don't know how to say what you're asking me to say, or fix what you're asking me to fix. To tell you the truth, I had assumed you were less complicated than this."

Marshall was drinking water of his own accord now, and while he didn't seem to like the answer he'd been given, he didn't seem to hate it either.

"Who's..who's the idiot now?" Marshall wiped at his face, meaning that some water must had dribbled after all. And Bubba just watched him. It was weird, but from this angle, with his rosy cheeks and grimly drawn smile, wiping slobber and sweat and tears and snot and stray hairs alike, he looked kind of cute. Not too much so, just kind of. When Bubba complimented people he didn't mean it, but if he had complimented Marshall just now, only his mouth would have been lying. But if he thought to deep on it, he could taste today's lunch tickling his esophagus.

"Oh, so now that you can talk again, all you have for me is insults. You come into my home, spit up my tap, and now you want to bully me. Well let me tell you-"

Only he wouldn't be telling him anything. Because just then Marshall reached for his hand.

_Don't do that,_ Bubba thought, _you can do literally anything but that._ He wondered if this was the sort of feeling Marshall got right before his lungs started collapsing.

But he didn't move his hand.


	17. 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep for getting to update on AO3, my apologies kids. Sorry if this sucks guys, I've been really...Let's not get into it. What's important is that I finally got this chapter done.

Opening his eyes Marshall found himself gazing at an arched white ceiling, so clean it was practically sparkling. The view was unlike any Marshall would ever see in his own home, and he knew for sure that he was not back in that wretched hospital room. (As if he could ever fall asleep surrounded by the aroma of dead people.)

_Am I... dreaming?_

"Well, thanks for getting me all wet." Marshall could feel his face growing feverish upon hearing these words. He jerked himself upright. And proceeded to smack himself in the head. Hard. Like in the cartoons, right before a comically sized bump grew into place. But this wasn't the cartoons, and the pain Marshall felt upon impact was real, and not at all bordering on funny.

Bubba pulled back, wincing as he rubbed his newfound wound. "Jesus, Lee. Maybe next time, a warning could be provided before you smash me about?"

Wording again.

Marshall raised one thick eyebrow, realizing at last what had just happened. There's no way that Bubba's face would have been lowered enough to experience a collision in the first place, unless..."You were watching me sleep?! Do you realize how creepy that is?"

The prince glared at him, still massaging his now bruising forehead.

"You could hardly breathe when you first passed out, and I had to be sure you weren't going to die in the middle of me kitchen floor. Don't mistake my slight concern of hospital fees for infatuation. Besides," he added, looking down at himself, "It's not like you gave me much of a way to move anywhere else."

Marshall gazed at the tile floor, swallowing enough air to fill up both of his cheeks. Certainly, this had not been the coveted scenario when he had dreamed of sleeping with someone in random areas of the house. He scratched his head, unaware that Bubba was still actively watching him, calculating his moves and the way his face furrowed onto itself out of embarrassment. "Yeah, sorry about that."

"Not a problem, I love it when my expensive clothing is drowned in someone else's saliva." Marshall stood up as Bubba did, wiping excess drool from his chin. This marked what, like the tenth time he'd drooled, cried, and or physically assaulted his bed buddy? And they say romance is dead.

"Not just that-also the whole, breakdown thing with me crying and screaming..." The other boy just shrugged his shoulders, dabbing at the wet spot with a paper towel. Marshall felt less panicked, but certainly not mentally or emotionally much better than before. At least this state of mind was more manageable, even if it was just a quieter form of torture.

"Don't mention it, Lee. The panic attacks...you don't really have control over them, yes? And you're breathing okay now. It was kind of a waste of my time, but I'm the one who let you in to begin with." Lee struggled to decipher and unscramble the words in his mind, as it often proved difficult to discover whether Bubba was being condescending, or nice in his own guarded sort of way. Marshall was really stumped this time. He should have brought a spare sheet of paper to work I out. But with the way he was going, he'd likely fail the exam either way.

"I'm going to go change clothes now, it kind of looks like I pissed myself thanks to you. Just stay here, I won't be long."

Marshall wanted to cry out his disapproval at the idea of being alone, but sensed he had already caused enough trouble, and Bubba would only mock him anyways.

Then again, he hadn't pulled his hand away.

It seemed as though hours went by as Marshall waited for his foe to return, and staring at the sink grew to be quite a dull pastime. In Marshall Lee's household, the faucet dripped and leaked no matter how harshly you jerked at the handles, and one could focus on the dripping and fall into rhythm with it, to drown out the sound of crying or your mother guzzling down beer bottles. Bubba's sink was different, well maintained enough that not a drop of extra fluid fell from it, and that got Marshall into thinking about quiet sinks and loud sinks and what it all meant. Of course, the prince would have found such analogies uneducated, but Marshall believed that everything meant something, even if that something seemed insignificant at first glance. And he wondered, as he stared at the clean metallic space, what sort of thing would have to happen to someone to make them believe that the world meant nothing.

He needed to start taking notes, on the words Bubba said and the way he acted. Today especially. Something about his favorite color? It all made Marshall's already sore head even sorer. Something about the thought seemed incomplete, and the more he tried to sort it out, the more annoyed he grew. He'd have to save this all for later. What he really needed, was something for now.

_He said he wanted food, right? So maybe I can start something while I wait. Clearly, earlier's bloody cucumbers just weren't going to cut it.(Ironically enough.)_

To Marshall, there was something magical about rummaging through other people's kitchens. It told you a lot about someone, about how they lived and what they liked. The downside, of course, was that if you were looking for something in particular you likely had no idea where to find it. Bubba's kitchen counter was so clean and furnished that the Azul Macauba that topped it sparkled with delight. And although the kitchen was beautiful, Marshall found it strange the whole area seemed to have more of a blue theme to it, as blue did not seem to be one of the preppy teen's colors of preference at all. And that was another problem, apparently. The more time he spent in this particular kitchen, the more questions he gathered, questions that would likely never be answered.

Finally Marshall gave up on traditional preparation and selected a bag of barbecue chips. He was probably unworthy of using such expensive kitchen utensils anyways.

A delicate finger tapped his shoulder, and Marshall whirled around so quickly that he spilled chips all over the tidy kitchen tile "Well shit!" he exclaimed, both angry at himself for ruining something once more, as well as in reaction to Bubba's new choice of clothing. He's doing this on purpose to me, isn't he? The tight fabric hugged onto Bubba's hips, cut so high that they probably should have been illegal. Maybe it was, Marshall had little knowledge of his state's particular legalities. But it wasn't as if he'd turn him in for it either way. It was the first time Marshall had seen the prince dressed so informally (unless you consider all the incidents of nudity) yet he still held himself so formally that such simple attire was almost extravagant on him.

Marshall's eyes traveled up and down the long slender legs, all the way up to where the black fabric cut off his vision. Spandex. Of course he'd change into fucking spandex.

"I'll get them!" Marshall shouted, bending himself in order to better pick up pieces of potato. The once clean floor was now scattered with orange leaflets, a poor man's autumn. He was aware of course., of the awkward position which he had placed himself in by bending over repeatedly while the other just...watched. The flusteredness leaked into a more simplistic sort of annoyance.

"Are you going to help me or what?"

Bubba played with a strand of his already perfect hair. (Him and hair.) Apparently not. "You might as well just throw away the rest of the bag too, that over-glorified junk does your body no good."

Marshall rolled his eyes.

"Then why even have them?"

"Angel likes chips."

_Angel._ One of Bubba's friends, and even skinnier than him. Marshall seriously doubted that Angel liked chips, or any other food, for that matter. But he realized that this was probably a very sensitive subject, and knew better than to push it.

"Then I'm saving these for Angel," Marshall declared, sprinkling the last few floor chips into the garbage, "If you're not too busy looking pretty, find me a Ziploc to pour these into."

Spandex boy stepped closer to him. Apparently he'd never heard of "personal space". He wrapped his arms around Marshall, holding him in front of himself. He made his body his doll, falling limply into him, able to attain any position, but only when directed to do so. He whispered in his ear. Bubba's breath fell ticklish, but not in the way that makes for laughter.

"You think I'm pretty?"

_Do birds fly? Other than chickens and penguins and probably emus?_ The little hairs that sat on the back of Marshall's neck sat no longer, and he was fairly certain that his other organs were playing tennis, and his heart was the ball. This much was surely enough to die from, and it wasn't that Marshall minded the act of dying, so much as he just minded doing it in such pretty little arms. He'd end up double dying from the humiliation of it all. So he closed his eyes and thought for a bit, but what was a bit in Marshall time, was decades in Bubba time. There was a hand down underneath his waistband already. Since when? How long had it been there? Marshall's ears perked up. He wondered if he blushed as much at the tips of either ear as he did on either cheek, but he thought it would be weird to ask in the heat of the moment.

"Angel wouldn't touch something you've touched anyways, he hates you." Only Bubba said it like he was bragging. He said everything like he was bragging. Perhaps he was worried he'd never make it to soccer mom days, and he had to squeeze all of the cockiness out of his little body before he died young. Marshall didn't know Angel, but probably if he did, Angel wouldn't hate him so much. Then again Angel wasn't alone in this hatred. Why was he being told this again? Why was it being whispered seductively in his ear like it meant something?

"Won't your parents be here soon? You have parents, don't you?"

Bubba turned him round and kissed him, but his tongue was flavored salt and his eyes were still have open. Marshall and his injured ligament tore away, staring at him with bewilderment.

"You were kissing me angrily just now."

Bubba now shared this look of uncertainty. "There's no such thing as kissing angrily, Marshall." He really knew how to lie, among other things. How to make you not trust yourself.

"Only, I know there is, because that's what you were just doing to me." Marshall watched his eyes, waiting for them to give something away, to tell him the key to this anger, "What's the matter? Parents dead? If it makes you feel any better, my dad's dead. Well, probably. I've never seen him before so he might as well be. Everyone dies eventually, right?" Marshall could hear the words but it was as if he wasn't forming them himself. He just spit out noises and let them gather as they may, the more nervous he got the more noises he spit, the faster his pulse, the faster his tongue.

"Jesus Christ, will you shut up for a second?" Bubba leaned in towards him again, but Marshall swerved out of reach at the last second. Sand in the wind. He wasn't giving up so easy. The other stuff could wait, it could be put off for a decent amount of time. There was always tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.

"No," He said bluntly, "I want to hear about your family."

"Ever considered that maybe it's none of your goddamn business? We aren't friends, we aren't lovers. We've fucked, OK? Am I now supposed to confide in you, just to keep you all jittery inside? Just to keep your little heart from breaking? Jesus, get over yourself."

With each word Marshall's heart dug deeper on a path towards his stomach. This should have been expected of course, this kind of treatment. But somehow he always let his guard down around Bubba, he always found his mouth saying stupid things and his face heating up over simple interaction. The dark haired teen ran his injured tongue along his teeth, and debated chewing on the throbbing muscle once more. The pain made for an excellent distraction, and it wasn't like he was undeserving of such torture. But thinking once more of how Bubba had reacted over the first tongue incident, Marshall decided against it.

"You know everything about me. It's only fair. And if you tell me this, just a little bit about yourself, I'll never ask anything of you ever again. Swear it."

"Another deal? You really think that's wise? And why do you care so much? It's stupid really. You're stupid for caring." But he didn't seem angry so much as...intrigued. He just didn't have the nice words to dress up his sentences. Big ones, but not nice ones. He almost seemed impressed, by the boldness of such a "stupidity" in his presence.

Marshall had his back against the fridge now, watching the other, but keeping his distance lest proximity lead to distractions.

"What else would you offer me, fashion advice?"


	18. Lust and Envy

As Marshall's mother had taken up drinking, Marshall had taken up being gay. Don't mistake it for correlation, as Marshall had always been gay, and he doubted his mother had ever, or would ever know. Yes, it was all some happy go lucky coincidence. But coincidence sounds suspiciously like "closet case" if you're saying it fast enough.

So anyway, Marshall was gay. And he had known this since the very first time he saw the new kid.

Prince, but not as in "formerly known". Was that his real name? He lined his pencils up in the upper right corner of his desk. Instead of something as boring and cookie cutter as a book bag, he had one of those over the shoulder messenger types. He twisted one strand of hair when he spoke, and his eyes always remained firmly fixed into place, like they never had to wonder about anything. And why should they? He smelled nice too, but not nice enough to be bullied over it.

But for his whole first week Marshall wasn't sure what he felt. Some don't know bats from butterflies, and Lee was one of those types. He was anxious about absolutely everything, so he could see no reason as to why this wasn't just another thing he was anxious about. But every day was the same color on his body, adjacent to the one is Marshall's cheeks. He had assumed, if he really did like men alongside women, that he would like men more similar to himself, those impulsive and foul dressing and uninterested in Pre-Cal homework.

He had assumed wrong.

Alas, he idolized those outside of his circle, "above him" so to speak. And so he would come home to find his mother dancing among liquor and he would stare himself in the bathroom mirror and wonder.

If he was just a bit skinnier, just a bit prettier, if he spoke with conviction, if he dressed proper and succeeded in life and knew everything there was to know about everything, would his mother still be "the passing out regularly" kind? If he was good enough, would she follow suit? Would his life twist itself about until he found himself with money, and friends and lovers? Quick mental math: How many self-made successes would it take to cancel out each case of beer?

It was childish thinking, but it was a child thinking it.

Marshall thought, if he couldn't be with him, then he would just have to settle for being him. Peeling off his skin and wrapping it around like a blanket, pretending that it fit until eventually it did. It would take time and effort to accomplish one of these two things, something that was likely limited by the leftovers of a certain body he knew.

But he had the two most powerful, most compelling motivators on his side.


	19. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments kids, I love a nice boost of ego.

Marshal sat still on Sunpan Modern Bugatti Grain Leather, jaw drooping downward towards the polished floor.

Bubba rolled his eyes, short spandex creeping up his legs as he casually readjusted himself. It was as if he'd genuinely thought the Prince's life had been perfect up until ths point. Like he couldn't believe anything bad had happened to him ever. Where did that naivety come from? Was it his own fault, for projecting himself as more than human, or the fault of those who took this projection seriously?

"Your father is a total ass."

The candy prince nodded, propping his legs up on Marshall's lap. Marshall could practically imagine the sensation of Bubba's soft and tender skin brushing up against his, although his wretched jeans restricted him from actually feeling it. What he did gain, however, was a quick glance at the exposed flesh of the other boy's legs, and the reminder that his spandex continued to rise up,up the point of slight exposure of pink satin-

On purpose or an accident? Marshall's covered his face, red splotches reappearing along the his pale and sunken cheeks.

"And he really never hurt you? Like, phisically? You promise?'

Up until this point Bubba almost forgot that he hadn't actually confessed his story so much as rebranded Flame's gang stories and put his own name on it, and at the reminder of this he was proud of himself once more. The nosiness was really getting to him. It itched in a part of him that he couldn't scratch, each question throwing him more off guard than the last. So even if, especially if, it required lying, Bubba would put an end to them once in for all.

Still, for some odd reason, the prince couldn't bring himself to make the closing false promise, even if it meant Lee's constant nagging would fade away like abandoned childhood memories.

"Lee, when is the last time you checked your tongue?"

No answer. A plastic paperclip could have been lightly placed on one of the leather sofa cushions, and the sound from the mation would render one deaf.

Bubba sighed, chucking a pillow at Marshall's face. The prince's arm held a surprising amount of strength, and Marshall Lee's jaw seemed to snap sideways on impact.

_Really? You want to play doctor, and then you further my injuries?_

At least, now that Marshall's head was facing in the other direction, it was easier to avoid staring at those obnoxiously gorgeous limbs, astonishingly hairless. If it had been anyone else, Lee would have thought for sure they shaved, but Bubba was already so impossibly clean and perfect that it seemed more likely not a single hair grew outside of the area atop Bubba's head than that he shaved on a daily basis.

"You haven't been taking care of it, have you?"

_I asked you a question first._

It occurred to Marshall that perhaps the teen was attempting to distract him, which only increased the concentration of his anxiety. Still avoiding looking down at his lap, Marshall inhaled deeply, leaning down to pick the soft pillow up off of the floor. Lee was cautious not to be too sudden in his movement, allowing a portion of Bubba's lower body to remain comfortably perched on his lap, because the other boy's comfort held more value than Marsh's own distress.

"He hurt you, didn't he?"

Regardless of if they both thought he was, Marshall wasn't stupid. Biased, naive, and impulsivemaybe. But he had remnants of a brain.

Bubba was now swallowing deep breaths of his own, gazing up at the ceiling as if it were coated in a thick layer of stars. Although the guest living room supplied the boys with just the right amount of air conditioning, and the prep was hardly clothed, he still found himself reduced to the revolting habit of sweating, his sticky body nearly glued to the rich white leather. Aware that Marshall had likely taken note of this, Bubba retracted his legs, pulling his shorts back down to an appropriate length, straightening out the areas where his clothing had been bunched up, which was almost everywhere. He sat on his own thighs now, huddled against himself for the time being.

The prince hated sweat. He hated sweat, he hated fathers, he hated not being in control, and he hated telling the truth. And more often than not, all of those things he hated found a way into his mind or onto his tongue whenever the naive dark-haired boy was in his presence. It was almost masochistic, the way he knew what Marshall would do to him, knew what would happen to his heart rate and his mind, yet he still continued to allow the boy to speak with him, to touch back when he touched, and to stare, almost every time they were together Marshall was staring at him.

_You could tell the truth, you know. If he tells anyone, it's not as if you couldn't make him pay. This one gets hurt easiest of all._

So why did he feel that when he was mean to Marshall, like he was hurting himself just as much?

Bubba wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, placing his right hand on Marshall's thigh to steady himself. The non-sweaty hand, of course.

The sensation sent a jolt up Marshall's spine, blatant in the way that he replaced himself, and "shivered" upon impact. This made Buba smile, though not visibly. He liked knowing what kind of an effect he did and could have on others.

"I'll help you treat your little wound, and then you need to leave." He said it as if he was still trying to convince himself. Marshall still had so many questions about everything, and his main one had yet to be answered. As they traveled toward the first floor bathroom, following the pink path that was the main hall, Bubba's sweating slowly eased up, and he held Marshall's hand in order to properly guide him.

"He never hurt me, Marshall, not even a scratch. Not that this should concern you anyways…"

Marshall smiled slightly, like an idiot, watching the prince beside him step so delicately towards the bathroom door, one foot almost perfectly aligned in front of the other. If the floor were to be replaced with a tightrope at any given moment, there was no doubt that he wouldn't have fallen.

"Promise?"

The ceiling was filled with galaxies again, and the ever so graceful beauty almost walked right into a painted pink wall. He was distracted again.

"I promise."


	20. The Beautiful Claim

The loud "thunk" of the ball brought Marshall to attention once more, and he clapped slowly for his dear friend. Fiona just scoffed, spitting into the neatly trimmed grass. The lime green field melted under that hot yellow orb in the sky, like a poorly written poem onto paper. You could practically see the squiggly lines of heating cutting their way sluggishly across the sky.

"Don't mock me Marshall, that was the worst shot I've made all day."

Fiona was decked out in soft blues that morning, from her jersey shirt right up to the sweatband shoved up past her sweaty forehead. The only components of her little uniform that didn't match the morning sky were her black cleats and long white socks, reaching past strong knees, partially sheltering a small pink bandage and its more than pink wound underneath. Even her eyes were a popping shade of blue, although they were far fiercer a shade than the clothing on her body.

The blonde chased after the soccer ball, collecting it once more from the net after scoring, and before running back to her previous spot. Standing, jogging, walking, all were steady and stable movements, unlike Marshall she had neither quiver nor slouch to her step on any occasion. It just wasn't fair.

"This would be a lot easier," she huffed between footsteps, "if you would at least attempt to be a proper goalie."

But Marshall just shook his head and continued to watch her run back and forth, mesmerized by all the flaw free patterns intertwined with inhuman levels of stamina. When he had first met and befriended Fiona several years ago, Marshall had tried signing up for a sport too, just to impress her. As it turned out, Marshall Lee and Co-Ed Baseball are very different words for a reason.

"Why do you hate him so much?"

Fiona punted the ball, and it flew before rolling lazily across the unmarked parking lot. Had there been a crowd, the would have cheered.

Or maybe they wouldn't have.

Marshall wasn't really sure how soccer worked.

Regardless, Fiona let the ball sit there for a bit, alone among a small number of trees. She exhaled softly, trying once more to tuck away the run away strand. Her hair, honestly at this point, might as well be shaved off. She spent more time correcting it then she ever did on the actual styling. And she hated having to spend time on either. As you may have guessed, she wasn't the hair type. Or the makeup type. Or the shoes type. Though she did have some Nike's she was partial to.

"Actually, the soccer ball's a she, and we get along pretty well these days."

A couple of birds were fighting over something, but it was all in chirp format, which made it hard to follow. Soon Marshall grew tired of trying. He tried for a not quite-laugh, the kind where you just exhale from your nostrils just a little louder than usual.

"You know who I mean."

"Yeah. Don't want to talk about it though."

At least she was honest. She went after the ball now, leaving Marshall to face an awkward sort of silence while he waited for her to return. Should he have come with? Probably. Was she taking an extra long time just to avoid ever having to talk to him again? He coughed a sort of not quite-cough.

Probably not.

It wasn't moist enough for a full on swarm, but Marshall still felt some sort of itching on his left ankle. Mosquitoes or not, he was always itching, like Inside Marshall was trying to break free from underneath his flesh prison and wear his body in reverse for a while. Lee finally examined little bump on his ankle. He prodded at it with his index finger, just to validate its reality. This time it wasn't Inside Marshall.

"I get you're all over the moon that he's sleeping with you, but you're smarter than this, you know? Do you really think it's worth it? That he cares about your feelings? Your mother? Your health? Your friends?" Unless Marshall had gone totally batshit, this was a solid indicator that Fiona was back, along with her she-ball. Well, he cares about my health at least. But the argument sounded weak even inside his head. Doctors could be assholes too; not respecting their patients, kicking teenage boys out of hospital rooms…

"I was just curious why you don't like him is all. Like, what did he ever do to you?" Fiona could feel her brow furrowing at the thought of this, her best friend trusting a near stranger over her. Of all the guys to choose over her, and of all the times to choose one. She knew that to an extent he couldn't help it, but to hear the words slip out was a different kind of pain than just visualizing them.

"It's not me I'm talking about. Well, not specifically." She kicked the ball again,into the goal this time. Soon the sun would be at its highest point, and the fields would fill with young athletes, and the parking lots with not so young cars. Fiona would have to leave, and find some other way to kill time. Weekends and days alike were all this way, she was home schooled and had nothing to turn to outside of sports and the world of online gaming. It would be beyond nice if Marshall was also on her program, and she figured it would cut out a significant amount of bullying, but these types of things required an active and responsible guardian.

Marshall was in silence, waiting for her to continue. He clasp his hands together and wrung at them like a jittery housewife. It worried Fiona that he worried so much. He used to not be like this. Or at least, less like this She used to be able to count from ten in her head, and by the time she hit one he was calm. Now even 20 was a godsend. She kicked the ball again, knowing she was partially to blame for all the nervousness. At least today.

"Well, he told you about his dad, didn't he?"


	21. Imagery

"And you're sure that she hasn't asked about me yet?"

"Marsh, she's really not in that sort of a state…"

Marshall picked at his shirt collar, fingernails hesitantly brushing up on deep red flannel. Even inside the school building it was nearly freezing, and the bright lighting made his eyes twitch and sting as he clutched onto his cheap cellphone. Technically he should not be on such a device in the school's main hallway, and it wasn't like Marsh could afford to pay his phone bill anyways. Still, he had to keep in touch with Fiona at all times, because A) They were best friends and B) His mom was dying. Anyone who has had a best friend or a dying mom can relate to this sort of an urgency.

"And you'll get me in as soon as you can?" he questioned, watching a swarm of students swish by him. He glared at a few, those who were clearly condemning him for his little sick mom-one friend predicament. Highschoolers are just horrible people.

Fiona was still just outside of the hospital room, peeking in at the sleeping Simone through the doorway. She had her own kind of swarm, the cold faced and white coated kind. The kind with "concern concern concern" sketched in sharpie across their faces, in place of any actual human features. She twirled at that one strand of hair.

"Marsh, I really think you should talk to someone before trying to get in, maybe her doctors were right…"

But he was done playing pushover in regards to these kinds of things.

"I have to see her. You of all people should know this."

Fiona remained unconvinced. "Of course you're going to feel that way. But the question is, are you mentally prepared to see her? Can she even handle it right now? I mean, not trying to be negative, but-"

"I know," Marshall snapped, slapping his phone shut and shoving it into his ass pocket. It was almost time for his first period class anyways. The air was horribly stuffy down each and every hallway, as if the end goal was for all high school students to suffocate and drop dead before the year's finale. Marshall would much prefer death to pre-cal, if anyone happened to be surveying the students' opinion on the matter. Also, the cafeteria needed more variety.

The footsteps came before the body, and before even looking up Marshall knew exactly who it was. Only one person in the entire school walked like that, so much attitude vibrating in each step. Bubba's walk was different, more graceful, choreographed, elegant. Angel, on the other hand, pushed dangerously on the envelope of walking, just bordering the "stomp" aisle. He and Bubba had several similarities, but as far as physical traits they were polar opposites. Angel wore bright, loud colors mixed in awkwardly with deep ones, lemon yellows layered with mute sweatshirts, and ugly brown skinny jeans. It was as if he'd only been dressing himself for the past year or so. (He was just as loud fashion wise as he was mouth-wise, Marshall had previously noted.) Angel was not lean but scrawny to the point his eyes bulged, his nose was flat and he wore his thin hair in a long, loose ponytail, the kind that hardly bore any support at all. Also. He always smelled too strongly of breakfast food.

Marshall wondered what the two could possibly have in common so strong that it canceled out all of his "bully me" traits. And he wondered where he could pick that trait up for himself.

The two boys were exchanging words in tittering whispers, staring right at Marshall as they did so. There was a flock of preps behind them, all following close behind, but not 'stepping on your heels" close.

_Shit._

Before Marshall could run, his opponent was at it again, he managed to escape to the bathroom but the boy followed him in, forcing him up against the bathroom wall. At least his friend and all the others had dissolved into their proper places, and at least their proper places weren't the men's room. Though he did wonder why Angel hadn't come with. Did he hate Marshall that much, he'd ditch his friend over it?

_The real question is, why do I care?_

Marshall focused once more on his current surroundings, body growing stiff and hot. Bubba wasn't even touching him, not yet, just staring, forcing their bodies close together, not close enough to share friction, but they were definitely sharing warmth. Warmth. There was something intimate about the idea that a whole temperature was reserved for just the two of them.

"We're gonna be late for class."

Bubba's eyes glared on, right through the other boy's face, through the bathroom wall and the classrooms beyond it. He drew in his breaths, a thin calmness surfacing over and embalming his body. Boy liquid. Only the minute Marshall thought it he regretted it, because the two words combined with their setting conjured up intrusive pissing images. He closed his eyes and focused his mind elsewhere.

When Marshall was younger he would sneak outside at night and watch the stars in the sky, he used to have all the major constellations memorized. And in that raggedy boy's bathroom, watching Bubba watching him and feeling soft butterfly hands rise up the insides of his legs, Marshall was a little boy, seeing stars all over again. The new constellations exploded in his mind and skipped amongst their merriment, his body was hot and chilled and calm and nerve-wracked all at once.

The preppy individual had yet to kiss him, yet Marshall was already tasting fresh strawberries.

"Do you hate me?" Marshall asked, surprising even himself by the question. He never thought he'd have the nerve, but ever since Fiona had brought up such a notion it had been nagging at him. He knew he wouldn't be hearing what he wanted, he knew he was setting himself up for imminent tragedy and potentially another bathroom panic attack.

Bubba was equally shocked, dropping his hands to his sides. He was dressed completely sleeveless that day, the epitome of extravagant in a white dress shirt and matte black tie. Marshall wasn't quite sure whether the lack of pink clothing had been intentional or not, and he wasn't about to ask. There was already a hard-hitting question in play.

"I said, do you hate me?"

Silence. The constellations were dying off, the little boy a ghost once more.

"And Fiona said something about your father-"

Bubba's eyes narrowed into small slits. "Don't you ever shut up?!" The prince's voice was loud, too loud, it was likely someone would overhear. The bell for first period rang at last, and it was flaming and equal in its loudness and neither had been prepared.

Marshall had to remind himself not to chew on his tongue again, not when it was still healing up. He'd already been forgetting to do the steps. "H-hey, are you crying?"

Bubba sighed, calming himself with numbers and equations, mini-math aligned inside of his head. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Marshall's right ear. He finally kissed him.

Rough, quick, sloppy. Too much and too little simultaneously.

"Yes," he said, "I do hate you."

It was certainly an oddball way of saying it. But you don't say, "God, what a weirdo" to the boy you're making out with in the third floor restroom at the start of first period. Bubba turned to walk away, to leave the other boy sweating frantically against a peeling restroom wall. The stale piss aroma would be trapped up his nostrils for the next five hours at least. The scene accompanying it, much longer.

Marshall had pulled out his phone again, checking to see if his friend had called again with more info on his mother. He wasn't looking to a repeat a certain little mishap. But his phone had nothing to say. No missed calls, no messages.

"Hey," There Marshall went, surprising himself again. He cracked a few knuckles, waiting for the proper crunch factor to set in. Bubba was just watching him, waiting like he cared what was left to be said.

"Wanna go visit a hospital?"


	22. Justice for Interior Design

Bubba has thought skipping class with Marshall would be...unlike what it was turning out to be. He had skipped before of course, on the days he simply could not manage the tidiness of his feigned exterior; but in these instances he was always alone, and nowhere near a hospital for the poor. He was never near a hospital for rich people either. He just didn't like hospitals. However, the sole benefit of hospitals was that no one aside from the nurses was able to lay a hand on him. For this reason there were some nights at home with his father in which the boy had hoped and prayed to be injured enough for hospitalization, a vacation from those fiery hands and razor blade nails, those acid kisses and rotting lilac words. And it was somewhere within these contradicting opinions that Bubba sat himself now, finding himself fatherless down those familiar halls.

Marshall immediately sat down in a sea foam green chair and made himself at home, picking up a worn-out People magazine. It was several years past relevant gossip, but it wasn't as if he'd be able to tell the difference. The prince, on the other hand, refused to sit, staring with ferocity at those bird-print walls. The colors of this particular waiting room clashed horribly, soft baby blues of carpet bled into tan wallpaper. The chairs (excluding Marshall's) were neon green gumdrops, each more crooked than the last. There were a couple vaguely acceptable paintings, but most not properly nailed into place.

_If I have to stare at this monstrosity much longer, I think I'm going to need a room here as well._

So instead, Bubba focused his attention on Marshall.

The dorky teen wore the same jeans he always did, and an old baseball jersey that was much too small, probably because he had little to no new clothes to wear, unlike like most of his classmates. Or maybe he just couldn't be bothered to do the laundry. The white cloth hugged onto Marshall so tightly around the shoulder area that Bubba saw ugly pinkish imprints on his skin, and worried that Lee would suffer loss of circulation. Loss of circulation was a real problem that kids these days were always overlooking.

Marshall was drumming his right hand on the nearby tabletop, flipping through the glossy pages with his left. The magazine rested peacefully on his lap, and Marsh gently rocked his knobby knees back and forth, subconsciously performing a mute lullaby. The rest of the citizens and white coats alike wandering aimlessly about these halls did not seem nearly as intrigued by Marshall's rhythmic movements as Bubba did.

As if on cue, Marshall looked up from his outdated magazine, cheeks as red as cherries to be seen in what he assumed was an unseemly state. Bubba hated cherries. He sucked in air through his teeth.

"Were you…checking me out?'

Marshall's thick black hair was actually pulled out of his face for once, and his brown eyes were fully visible. Flecks of uneven color decorated his irises, like a child had been using brown Crayola on their coloring page and gave up halfway through darkening the hue. Bubba had never seen brown eyes with a tint such as this one, including his own. He had always thought brown eyes were prettier than blue or green regardless, and this was just fuel to the fire.

Bubba scolded himself for being caught, for looking and thinking in the first place. At this point you're already metaphorically on your knees. In public, of all places. Lovely.

Bubba's legs somewhat buckled in underneath him, forcing him to follow through and pretend the logic behind such an action was sitting down in one of those hideous seats. And so he sat. Very unhappily so. He was not usually prone to such clumsiness and imperfection, but this particular slip up offended graciously, because it meant he now had no choice but to sit still among the colorful chaos and become a part of its gruesome collage. Once seated, he tapped his foot with authority all the same. He was sitting next to Marshal, but god forbid he meet those eyes again.

"God, you're so full of yourself."

There was no one else sitting in that specific waiting room (unless you count the bizarre excuse for a secretary, who had his own little extended beige office area), which truly was a surprise. Waiting rooms were always full of people. Living, dying, angry and sad. But perhaps when they combined forces, Marshall and his companion had enough anger and sadness to fill the entire wing. Perhaps anymore life in this room and the entire emotional scale would split in two. Bubba tried not to look at the walls anymore than he had to. He selected for himself one of those home decor catalogs, ignoring the split second in which his fingertips mingled with the other's. Now was neither the time nor place. He was working on learning that.

Fiona soon entered stage right, warrior goddess hair tied high above her head. Seeing Marshall's present company, her eyes were all thunderstorm-y again. But underneath those eyes Bubba could see the bags. She had been losing sleep over this, potentially all of it. And he was a guest in this hospital, despite the walls' inability to make him feel welcome. He'd try to hold his tongue. Bubba squinted at a particular image of cabinets with more intensity.

"You can go in now, Marsh," she said, folding two thick muscular arms in front of her chest, "but I'm not saying the same for your boyfriend."

Marshall started to say something, but Bubba cut him off with a warning glare.

"She's right you know, I'll just make things worse."

"But she has to know-"

Marshall was glaring back at him with the same sort of look. What was with him today? Bubba cleared his throat. His eyes were now on some fancy looking towel holders. Now a fairy lit porch. Classically styled dining seats. The curls were so soft they damn near cut just by looking.

"She can "know" when she's healthy. For the time being it's not worth mentioning. Besides, you've got plenty of time." Marshall looked like he wanted to hear more, like he wanted to say more, but Bubba wasn't looking back at him to catch this forlorn gaze. Classic kicked puppy, and no one had bothered to notice. Despite the earlier abandonment, as Lee stood up Bubba caught him by the shoulders and kissed him. Gentler than expected, not the usual dominant forcefulness. Just a quick butterfly peck on his cheek, but still the below-freezing room was now toasty warm and Marshal's mind had exploded into color, particularly a roaring violet, as loud as the ocean and bright as extreme fluorescent lighting.

So he kind of forgave him for the whole "not looking him in the eye" business. Marshall was of the opinion that good luck charms came as actions more than they came as objects, and this incident only rationalized the concept to his hopelessly romantic cranium.

"Good luck," Bubba said, reading his mind, and Marshall almost forgave him for everything this time. He stopped himself only because there were more important matters to attend to. Fiona was still saying nothing, though it was clear she had lots of things to say. Bubba watched Marshall disappear into the hole between wallpaper and felt almost somber to see him gone. He'd have to work on that.


	23. Brutal Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is a mess, send help immediately.

Bubba checked his wristwatch again, eyes glancing over it but not really registering what appeared on its face. Fiona was doing the exact opposite, carefully monitoring every expression that her current companion seemed to make, mentally jotting down exactly everything that was wrong with each individual facial display. Bubba of course could sense that he was not welcome, and shifted the weight of his small book bag so that it more comfortably rested on both of his shoulders. He didn't dare sit back down, but standing wasn't quite all that comfortable either.

"I'll just be leaving…"

Fiona shook her head firmly. "No, no you won't. We need to talk."

The prince sighed, a motion that would have of course been worshiped if Marshall had been is his presence, but his current company was less than impressed. She wouldn't be so easily seduced or love struck, she wouldn't be astonished by his level of intelligence. Essentially Bubba had no quality worth offering up in her direction.

All anyone wanted Bubba to do lately was speak, explain himself, get in touch with his feelings and all, when if it weren't for Marshall, he would probably be stuck in his old life, everything under his own control and carefully monitored and regulated. Secrets tucked away safely under the rug where they should remain. It was better when people were quiet, unquestioning, it made everything less to be fair, Fiona had always been like this towards him. Pre-Marshall era even.

Bubba sighed again.

"Whatever you think we need to talk about is probably a waste of my precious time, but seeing as though you'll likely brutally attack me if I don't oblige…"

Fiona blew a puff of blonde hair out of her eyes, fists clenched on either side of her body. The secretary was still present and somewhat overlapping the waiting room, but he was off in a different land, bobbing his head to the music blasting from his Beats while he skimmed the latest issue of Essence. They would not be stopped by his partial authority any time soon.

"You conveniently ignored the fact that you were just as willing to throw down the other night. So what is it now? Scared? Where was that fear all those years ago, when you were running around framing people for heinous crimes?"

Still, Beats boy did not look up from his pages. As he bounced his cranium around his hair followed, the neon green and pink strands dancing atop his half-shaved scalp. He called the look "Poison Injected Apple" or "Bad Boy Meets Lover". Either way, his mom was probably never buying him hair dye again.

Bubba didn't like Fiona anymore, not like he used to when they were little, before he tried to warn her about his father. She was just as repulsive to him as that hospital waiting room, a collision of intoxicating traits that drove a person mad. Marshall was also like the waiting room, but somehow on him it provoked a different kind of reaction. But maybe that was why the two of them were the best of friends. _So god damn over dramatic._

"If you genuinely still think that's what happened, I can't help you sort that out. I'm sorry that in your parent-less state you made the mistake of latching on to mine. But I'm not going to humor you with violence."

Bubba started walking again. He made his way only halfway across the room before Fiona was in his path once more. She had her hands on her wide hips, eyes narrowed to slim triangles. She was doing that thing where she pretended she was took up more space than the reality. Bubba, who was used to these kinds of techniques, felt more offended than intimidated. This was a genuine waste of time. Why was she always wasting his time? He didn't want to be in the hospital anymore, and he didn't want to cause a scene either.

"How is that not what happened? ...Never mind. Just stay away from Marshall, okay?"

Even she was not so dense to have been unintentional with the offer. Fiona was giving Bubba a way out. His ticket to leave, if he would only agree to this much. In the grand scheme of all the bullshit he had ever agreed to in his life, this would be bordering minor. He smiled. (Again, no Marshall-like responses were received, and it left a bit of a hollow feeling lingering.) He adjusted his backpack once more. Distributing the weight unevenly this time.

"No," he said. And then Bubba kept walking. The walls were gonna kill his eyesight with any prolonged exposure, which was kind of ironic for hospital decor. Based on the magazine he'd just pretended to read, Bubba believed a better option would have been eggshell blue, pollen yellow, or a faint mint green. He considered leaving a note for the staff to inform them of his findings. Hell, it wasn't as if he couldn't hire this dump some painters himself.

Fiona nodded, tapping her sneaker-ed foot against the soft chilled tile. She had anticipated this reponse. Her elite private school was currently undergoing a teacher workday, so she had all the time in the world. Still, Bubba thought she should be spending that time in a more productive manner. Napping would be a start.

"Well, the least you can do is promise to treat him right."

Bubba stopped once he reached the secretary's little window area. "No to that as well." He wasn't going to be spoken down to by Xena or by anyone else. This entire ordeal had all been a tremendous insult to his existence as well as just a general waste, and he felt ignorant for expecting any good to come of it.

But Fiona wasn't exactly jumping for joy either. She threw her hands against her thighs, exasperated. She was definitely a gesture based kind of person. Gestures and facial expressions and that holier-than-thou ponytail. "After what you've done to me, it's the least you could-"

"After what I've done to you?" Bubba had to laugh at that, "Saving your life is what I've done. Kept you from becoming me, rotten and fucked up and sleeping with your best friend." He tapped at the glass frame between the two of them and Beats Boy, who was now playing some type of shooter game which he had illegally downloaded the night before. There was no way he was actually old enough to be working this job. "And now I'm probably going to sleep with this moron while I sort things out, but you wouldn't dare tell Marshall. Because you think you're a good friend."

The glass slid open. Bubba smiled, and he said something that Fiona couldn't hear, because she was walking away by the time he called for her again.

"But Fiona?"

She looked to him slowly, still half expecting him to apologize.

"You aren't."


	24. Dead Mothers Club

She was gone.

Nobody bothered explaining it to Marshall, all were too busy filing reports and rushing around towards patients they still considered relevant. One male nurse asked Lee if he had anyone else to stay with, perhaps a father or distant relative, but he received no verbal response. And he certainly wasn't going to stick around for the nonverbal one.

Marshall had somehow managed to keep from relapsing into another attack, and instead did the exact opposite, standing in the center of the hospital room, completely still. Time was as unreal as everything else in his life, so he couldn't tell you how many seconds or minutes or hours he spent there even if he tried.

Marshall was not sure how it had happened or why, but he remembered seeing the monitor, he remembered the blips going silent. This was right before he crashed. This was right before he went silent.

"Hey," Marshall had shouted, "Hey!"

"My mother's heart's not beating!"

The emergency switch meant to notify the nurses was connected to the hospital bed, and Marshall switched it back and forth, back and forth, on and then back off again. It was another self made rhythm, but no audience rejoiced at the sound. He thought that he might puke, all over his dead mother. Puke all over his dead mother. It'd make for the best present he'd ever given her.

"Are you even supposed to be here?" Was immediately followed by: "I am so sorry.", and the machines were all unplugged and the world was put on mute. That's when everything stopped. And stayed stopped, for a while. Out of respect for Marshall's loss, the world went on vacation. When people asked where he was when the world ended, a statue would be erected in his honor, to stand just like he intended to, trapped on top of tile for the rest of forever.

After he finally could lift his stone feet, Marshall exited the room. The secretary with tacky hair wasn't there anymore, meaning Marshall wouldn't have to ignore any offerings of a ride home or candy or whatever else there is to be given out in times such as these. Bubba and Fiona were both gone from the waiting room. It would have been preposterous to him, just before the silence, to assume that Fiona would ever treat him like this. But as far as Bubba went, Marshall wasn't surprised in the slightest.

Not that Marshall wanted to see Bubba, not after what he had done. Maybe if she had lived, they would have been alright. But now the prince was a murderer. The prince was a cold-blooded killer, and Marshall was his lust-crazed partner in crime.

Marshall wouldn't go to school tomorrow.

He debated killing himself, just to get it all over with. But he just couldn't settle on method. He debated running away, but there wasn't anywhere to run to. The now-clean house that was meant to be a gift from his best friend now was just an insensitive reminder that there would be no one to litter the floors ever again.

Marshall flipped on the old television, which surprisingly still worked, and stared blankly at the spasmodic screen. Some kid's cartoon was on, it looked a bit like Sponge bob but it was awfully hard to tell due to those obnoxious tears that snagged onto his eyelashes every time he felt a blink coming on.

Frankly, it was surprising to Marshall that he could even blink and function at all after what had happened, but he couldn't think on it so much, because the blinking and crying was so draining that it required all aspects of his energy. No energy left for thinking. And that was probably for the best.

Marshall Lee didn't sleep that night, he couldn't have even if he had wanted to. He lay on the couch eyes open, still standing in that hospital room.


	25. Flowers Not for Algernon

Marshall avoided school for two weeks without so much a single phone call home. To disappear off the face of the earth was proving to be much easier than Marshall had anticipated. Fiona visited his household on several occasions, even brought over lasagna and white chocolate chip cookies, but he refused to speak to her or even acknowledge her existence upon any of these visitations.. Bubba hadn't heard the news of course, and assumed for the first week of absences that perhaps Marshall was just spending more time with his mother. After all, he needed it.

Perhaps the teen got worried, perhaps he was nosy, or lonely, or angry or horny. But for whatever reason, on the last day of the second week he showed up at Marshall's doorstep. With flowers. An entire fucking bouquet of them. All wrapped up in each other in a lovely and symbolic sort of way. He assumed Marshall's favorite color was red, but the multitude of stores he had visited had all been rose-less, even under the threat of potential lawsuit by wealth-infused youth.

Bubba now stood at the doorway, listening to nearby birds twitter harmoniously. After counting to ten, following the pace of his heart as it pumped blood through his body, the prince knocked on the door. Once. Twice. He threw the flowers into the bushes.

The pretty purples and yellows sat sadly behind ugly green shrubbery, still wrapped in their bright and shiny papering. Normally Bubba hated shiny things, but he had thought the bouquet he had chosen looked significantly pleasant. Especially considering how stealthy he had been in picking them out and commencing with purchase, not wanting to be seen by any of his hateful little school friends. Angel especially, but for a different reason.

Now however, he thought the flowers had been an utterly stupid idea and he wanted to shoot himself for wasting his own time and money on some bratty poor boy who couldn't be bothered to turn in his own homework assignments, or even pretend to pay attention for a millisecond of periods 1-8. Still, Bubba felt a cold clawed hand mauling at his gut when he looked back to witness the abandoned foliage. It wasn't the flowers' fault that he was an impulsive asshat with too much money to spend.

Three times. Bubba tried the knob but the door was locked. Obviously. This was one of those high-crime areas, you couldn't be leaving your doors unlocked. Bubba shivered at the very thought. He cupped his hands against the cold surface, shouting as loud as he possibly could without being too obnoxious. He leaned in too close and his lips almost met the cool and polished surface. Could you describe a door as polished? He did it anyway.

"Marshall! It's me!" Bubba called, already very much annoyed by all the trouble he was going to for the possibility that his classmate may not even open the door and welcome him in. It was sort of a long drive from this sort of area back to his prim little home by the lake, and even longer once it got dark.

_Me. Because me is definitely my name_. Bubba hated making stupid mistakes such as this one, and he hated waiting, and he hating buying flowers for stupid boys with alcoholic mothers and angry blonde friends. Bubba hated a lot of things really, and leaving him alone outside was just giving him more time to think about all those things he hated, which in turn heightened the extent of his frustration. Just when the prince was ready to kick the door down, it at last swung open, revealing a dead boy living.

The dark circles under Marshall's eyes pulled downward at his flesh and made his whole face look sunken in, his once bizarrely beautiful thick black hair was now greasy and stringy and fell at every angle imaginable. Marshall had this cold, mean stare on his face, and his naked torso shamelessly revealed the fact that he had likely not been eating right. The only sort of clothing he had on at all were boxers, turned inside out and backwards, smelling quite strongly of unwashed ass cheek.

To top things off, it looked very much to Bubba, as if Marshall had been crying. A lot. Of course, there was no drippy mascara to confirm the fact, but his doughnut glaze eyes seemed evidence enough to tread carefully.

"You."

Bubba nodded, not sure exactly how he was supposed to respond to that. Once more, not his name.

"Yes, it is me, in case it wasn't obvious by me announcing it was me literally a minute ago. Now if you would be a doll and let me in, so I could handle my business far away from all these incompetent mosquitoes and potential hooligans, I-"

Marshall yanked on the other boy's collar, raising his fist. It was hot for a split second. Before the fist raise. The fist raising part was definitely not hot. He lifted Bubba just slightly off the ground, so that his feet dangled. Bubba had once wondered how Marshall had felt during his panic attacks, and he had no doubt that it was extremely similar to the way which he now felt himself.

"You killed my mother." He clearly hadn't spoken to anyone in a good ten days at least, yet his voice was still worn and broken up, like he'd been choking on words all this time. Like he'd been practicing this very speech for his own benefit on a daily basis, over and over until he went red in his face.

"You know, maybe now isn't a good time…" To say the least. His little rich boy sneaker was loose, sort of dangling off the end of his also dangling foot. That was a lot of arm strength for a stringy lad such as he. Bubba would not hesitate to kick both this one and the other off when he made a run for it. He could always buy new shoes.

"You killed my mother!"

Marshall was practically screaming at the top of his lungs and it was making Bubba's ears sore. He'd have to get them checked after this, assuming he survived the experience. Of all the possible scenarios, he had expected this one the least. A heads up from Fiona would have been real helpful, but god forbid that girl ever do the right thing.

"M-Marshall you're sort of hurting me…"

Lee laughed. His breath smelled of ammonia and dried blood. His eyes were void of any sympathy or remorse. There was no doubt he had been drinking, for booze also danced among the unpleasant features he now portrayed. Another mistake on the blonde's part, leaving any alcoholic traces amid st this place. Marshall's fingers tightened their grip, and that shoe just drizzled on the outline of sock. One misstep and it would drop and shatter itself beyond repair.

"Like I care." Bubba's eyes widened, he could breathe but it was a little difficult with his stomach bouncing up and down towards his throat and all he could think was not again, not again not again, he could see the fist and angry eyes attached to the one person he had somewhat trusted.

Bubba hypothetically knew how to defend himself from torpedo strikes but looking into Marshall's eyes his knees began to shake and he couldn't budge, he of all people particular aspects of combat and self-preservation and yet his body he refused him. Too weak. Too weak. The prince was on the verge of tears but crying would only make him weaker, and didn't he deserve this? Was the entire situation not at least partially his fault?

Bubba's mind wandered back to his childhood. It hadn't been first at the doorway, but in a public place behind the ice cream truck, where he had kissed him and when his son fought back in a bewildered state he had taken his hand and-

"Stop!" Bubba shrieked, and it wasn't strong although it may have been brave, too brave. The candy prince shivered, he was tired and he just wanted to go home and sleep forever.

Marshall surprisingly obliged, just before any harm was caused. His face was still pallid and twisted cruelly, but he said nothing. Bubba was not bruised, but only in the physical sense, and when he was set down he shook for a bit.

"I am...truly sorry about your mother, Marshall. I made a terrible mistake. I should have killed you instead."

The bouquet behind the bush was sadly drooping, left tucked away from the world it was so spontaneously and wrongfully born into.


	26. Playing with Matches

The golden spark leapt up towards the sky, reaching its heated arms naively for oblivion. Marshall almost hoped that the single flame would fall downward from its pedestal and hop onto his pale brown skin. It would be nice to feel something, even for a mere moment.

Marshall had no mother; therefore there was no one to scold him for playing with matches, no one to tell him he couldn't toy with the switch of an ancient lighter to pass the time. And so he sat cross-legged on the carpeted living room floor, watching the flames skitter upward and then skitter back down again at his command. One of the few figments of existence which actually obeyed.

Bubba wasn't coming back for sure now, and Marshall wasn't sure how to feel about this because his mind was immersed in those flames, and thinking too much made his head hurt and his fingers twitch. No good, having twitchy fingers while playing among fire starters. Or was it? Marshall tentatively inhaled.

Death by fire…It was almost romantic.

Lee had seen that movie, Pompeii, with ex-girlfriend the day it had premiered in theaters. The couple had died not by flame but by magma, which was similar enough in concept in Marshall's humble opinion. Their world was facing massive destruction, and the escaped slave and royal lady were simply snacking on each other's faces as everything they had known died off and became history. Marshall hated that movie.

At last he lay the lighter down after releasing the wheel, and ignored his stomach's incessant grumbling. His home had an alarming amount of old matchbox's, and Lee had gathered each and every one that he could find and surrounded himself with them. Marshall struck up a new match now that he was bored with the lighter, and the fire suffocated the pleas of his agonized abdomen.

Of course, Marshall knew he had been cruel to Bubba, and that his mom probably would have ended up OD-ing to the point of death eventually if he never found a way to stop her. But it was just so nice to have someone to blame outside of himself, so, so nice not to be the only one that he himself hated. Wasn't that the point of having an enemy? An entire being to blame for the tragedy of his troubles.

What wasn't so pleasant in contrast, was seeing the betrayed look on Bubba's face. What wasn't so nice was hearing he deserved to die and willingly exiling himself. But why didn't Bubs fight back? Hell, Bubba was capable of defending himself. He could probably kill if he wanted to, he was tough and strong and beautiful and brave.

_Do I make him weak? Am I…hurting him?_

Too much thought. Marshall's ignorance of the building flame resulted in a burnt finger.

Lee jumped, tossing the burnt match aside and stomping furiously after it hit the carpet, just to be safe. Fiona somehow had obtained a key to his home, and walked in just in time to see her dear friend shouting and prancing around the living room floor.

A living room floor that was coated in used matches.

After so many instances of entering his home only to receive perpetual silent treatment, Fiona had somewhat become accustomed to handling her corpse of a platonic partner. She would talk to him all bright and chipper, not bothering to scold or plead or say any of the normal things you'd say to a pal with a recently deceased mother. Fiona knew Marshall didn't want that. She knew that he wanted normal, and to be treated as normal even when snot-faced and blubbering and covered in matches. Just until he got beyond this bitter patch.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't see anything if you'll be a good boy and clean up your mess before we both lose it," she chirped, slugging him softly in the shoulder. "And since I don't feel like cooking, we're gonna order pizza if that's cool. I also borrowed all of F.R.I.E.N.D.S from Starchy, so you can yell angrily at Ross with me as he so eagerly partakes of his fedora lifestyle."

Fi dropped her drawstring bag (presumably stuffed with sporting gear and previously mentioned DVDs) onto the saggy parlor couch. But Marshall was far more interested in what she was still holding.

"These were out behind your bushes…don't ask why I was behind your bushes, it's irrelevant."

Marshall did not reply. He had been planning to never speak again, but had slipped up when visited by a particular brat in pink, who tended to make a habit of stimulating such slip-ups. This time however, he did not intend to speak with such a devastating brashness.

"Did Ashley drop by or something?"

Marshall picked at the fabric of his shorts at the mention of such a name. The papering of the bouquet was now torn, and the flowers were caked in soil and small insects.

"'Cause I can just throw them out if you want, but this hodgepodge probably doesn't make the most efficient compost."

Marshall just shook his head immediately, yanking the stems and their proceeding petals out of Fiona's arms. He put all of his dangerous toys away, and joined his jock friend in the kitchen. Marsh didn't own any vases, so they tucked the plants away in a sturdy college football cup and stuck them directly in the center of the dining room table.

"What do you think?"

Marshall examined the disheveled bouquet. No one had ever given him flowers before, and he had certainly not expected a gift from some pretty boy who supposedly hated his guts but was very okay with kissing him.

His cheeks were crimson and a flame, a different kind of flame, and he looked away from his flowers and focused on his bare feet, wiggling his toes in drum-like rotations.

The stems were all jutting out at awkward angles like dislocated bones, the petals were torn like pitifully ripped pages. But they were Marshall's stems and petals, and they had been picked out just for him, and so even if it broke his heart, he thought they were the most beautiful things he had ever seen with his own two eyes.

Marshall looked up from his feet. His face was still ruby red, and his heart was beating fast.

He disregarded his no-speech tactic for the second time that day.

"I think," Marshall said, "that I would very much like that pizza now."


	27. Sweet Affliction

"Ouch."

Bubba grimaced.

"This would be a whole lot easier for both of us if you would stop squirming and keep your pretty mouth shut. The cries of agony are stressing me out."

"Yes sir," Flame whimpered.

"I'm not even fucking you kid, I am pulling shards of glass out of your feet. Please keep all moaning to a minimum. You're so sensitive, for an ex-gang member, you know. Everything gets you twitching." His manservant did not respond, knowing he wasn't supposed to.

"Did your father ever hurt you? I mean, big angry clan leader, right? Wouldn't he naturally be a bit more violent?"

_Is he...trying to start a conversation?_

Bubba rarely interacted with Flame outside of reprimanding and other less apropriate things, so the teen felt blessed for any sort of conversation he could get. Even if parental abuse wasn't exactly a common theme for table talk.

Flame stared at his feet, golden brown eyes locked on to their target. He still wasn't sure if he was actually being invited into conversation. After all, he had just been told to shut up immediately.

Against his better judgement the boy spoke, releasing smothered syllables while his superior looked down on him, bearing a pair of shiny tweezers. Bubba's aunt was to return from her business trip in two days time, so that meant her nephew was the only one present to handle their worker's many errors and self-inflicted wounds.

"My dad never really hurt me, actually."

_It was a stupid question anyways. Suspicious, pathetic, we both know I fail at communication._

"Oh."

"I mean, he set me on fire once, but I think i was an accident."

The candy prince perked up, tweezers latching onto skittish flesh and yanking. Flame howled and sprang up from his seat, wincing as he sparred against the pain. Bubba covered his mouth in retaliation, although he was tempted to shut his eyes and scream.

Pain. Bubba despised the sounds,the sights, the sense of guilt. He hated the things that caused it too, such as guns and knives and love and fathers. He was absolutely repulsed by pain, and if he could he might just end the concept altogether.

Thankfully the freckled teen's reaction was quick, completely over almost as soon as it had began.

"He set you on fire?!"

Flame rubbed at the sole of his left foot, only to have his hand smacked away. If he picked at it, the pain would only worsen.

"I would like not to talk about it, if that's alright with you, sir. The whole "Flame" nickname thing and all...can we just not talk about it?

Marshall and Flame were a lot alike, but the prince's servant was softer, clumsier (if possible), less of a challenge. Bubba hadn't killed his mom, they didn't fight over stupid things, Flame would never hurt him or distract him at all.

He was...safer. The disaster-proof option. Easier to please, easier to tease, the best solution to a headache.

Like one of those cheesy damn commercials, but not a total lie.

Flame (or whatever his real name was) had stopped picking at his foot, and stared back at his current companion. His infinite freckles ran across his cheeks and drew down towards his shirt collar, where Bubba knew they continued in a similar pattern across the rest of his entirety. The blush made his spots pop even more, as he stared oh-so-innocently with his sweet doe eyes.

He helped him get the last sliver of glass out. Bubba could have kissed him.

Marshall had called him a name, Marshall whom he trusted was going to hurt him and the flowers Bubba bought with his own money lay locked away forever, Marshall couldn't possibly like him and his stupid servant boy would so obviously do anything in the pink prep's name.

So Bubba could have kissed him, quite easily. Quite willingly.

They continued their staring match for almost a full minute, Bubba placed his hands on the other boy's chest so that he could feel his yearning heartbeat, practically begging for the affection.

Finally, the eldest boy broke the silence, and turned his face away. His pretty pink room was singing, and his own heart was beating wildly. He thought he saw Marshall's face for a moment, and resisted the urge to vomit.

"You should scrub your feet down, they smell terrible."


	28. Boyfriends

At a regular high school, missing three weeks would probably result in automatic failure, seeing as though it would be nearly impossible to catch up.

Luckily for Marshall, his own school hardly cared. Nowadays they wanted to get rid of as many students as possible, as they secretly planned to shut down in a few years and sell the building to some wealthy land owners. Anything was better than wasting several thousand pretending to care about the future delinquents who further fermented those broken down walls. The only student almost permanently stuck in this dump was Lumps, because without some form of janitor the blue mold under the toilet seats was sure to overpopulate.

So Marshall returned to school. Fiona had offered to get him transferred over to attend her snooty little private school, but Lee politely declined. He had his reasons. He wasn't about to tell them to anyone, but they were there, prominent like a spotlight jammed into his wrinkly brain. He had no idea how he was going to catch up, but he was going to try his hardest, and hopefully not kill himself or someone else in the process.

So on the fourth week Marshall had returned, armed with coffee-stained notebook paper and an entire package of strawberry bubblegum. And of course, just a small dosage of guts, which he most certainly was going to need. All his classes whisked by faster than intended, though the ones Bubba was also attending drug on the longest, and the other boy of course refused to meet his stare. In their final class however, Bubba slid him a note, scrawled so neatly in that swirly snowflake handwriting that Marshall's heart bounced just glancing at it.

Unlike the prince, the note was not drawn out or intricate at all, simply a folded sheet of paper with eight soft words painted on the dead tree canvas. "Lockers. After school. This is not a request."

Marshall was tempted not to show up, but that would likely worsen things, and he had no energy to start a rebellion. As early as 3:30 sharp he stood in front of the other boy's door, but somehow Bubba had gotten there beforehand and was already waiting, tapping his foot as if he had spent a century's time in that skinny little walkway. At the sight of Marshall, he flicked his wrist quickly, glancing at his wristwatch for the slightest of milliseconds.

Angel's locker was nearby, and upon seeing the two boys together, he growled.

"Took you long enough, didn't it?" Bubba inquired, reaching into his back pocket. Marshall half expect him to retract a gun, and shoot him in the face. Maybe even a small pocket knife, and stab Marshall in the heart several times in a row. Maybe Bubba would pull out a stick of dynamite, and hand it to him with a sick smile slapped across his pretty face.

But what he revealed was not a weapon at all but another piece of paper, folded into a neat little square, the most adorable square Marshall had ever seen. If humans were capable of falling in love with blank white squares, they'd all be throwing their panties at this one.

Bubba slipped it into Marshall's hand very quickly, but there was no denying that stupid tingle the moment their hands met.

Marshall unfolded it. It was the exact same drawing he had doodled in class, the same one he almost got in trouble for. From a slight distance Angel was still fuming. Marshall blushed, quickly crumpling up the pale striped sheet and cramming it into his book bag.

"Do whatever you want with it, I don't care."

"Then why didn't you just throw it out?"

Bubba held back a groan of frustration, turning away and beginning to walk.

"Why don't you just throw it away?" Bubba retorted, although his response was laced in ice and did not really answer the question.

Against his better judgment Marshall followed him. Fiona was supposed to pick him up from school but Lee seemed to entirely disregard this bit of knowledge as he dumbly followed the figure in front of him. "Well if that's all I was wondering if you found-"

"Found what?!" Bubba snapped loudly. A little too loudly. Several students on their way to the parking lot looked back at them, causing Marshall to cave his shoulders in and snap his head downward to form his own barrier, an automatic turtle shell. Lee's heart skipped a beat, and he kept his sweaty palms buried in the front pockets of his navy blue hoodie. There were a handful of stains on the outside of it, small dots lining the collar.

By now they were out of the main crowd, but there was still a fairly thick stream of high school students wandering around the two like headless chickens.

"They should still be in your room, if you want we can drop by and-"

_My god. He's talking about his fucking underwear? I'm going to have to let him over again, over a stupid pair of-_

"They hardly fit you anyways," he recalled, opening the driver's side door and allowing it to swing back and slice open innocent air molecules. Everything was violence.

Marshall forced a small laugh, slipping into the passenger's side without so much as a hint of permission. The inside of the car seemed to be tinted pink as well, a detail Lee had failed to notice before. Bubba himself once more wore not a hint of visible pink on his body, not even a measly bow or necktie.

"You're right of course, but I really can't afford to buy any more..." Technically, he could not afford to pay for light and heat and water either, but somehow Marshall had yet to be visited by Child Services, or get kicked out of his own home.

For a while they rode in silence, the sun glaring meanly and Bubba glaring right back at it. Marshall spoke up as they passed the Piggly Wiggly grocery store, clearing his throat before beginning conversation.

"The other day...my freak-out wasn't really fair to you, I was hurting and i wanted someone else to hurt too."

Bubba stomped the gas pedal, clutching more tightly at the steering wheel before him.

_As if I wasn't hurting prior as well. Only thinking of himself, as always._

"I don't want you to hate me, I kind of, umm I don't not like you…"

"What are you trying to say? You need to stop, you need stop right now."

"I've been a bit douche-y and all but I still don't think you hate me, I think maybe you like me too? And I think you're very nice and pretty and umm...I'm sorry I guess."

The words were all there even if they were assembled in messy kindergartner format, and Marshall chewed more rapidly at the gum in his mouth in attempt to distract from what he had just said. His face was fire but the driver screamed stone, staring straight at the road and keeping his lovely body completely solid. It was strange that he just kept babbling like an idiot, a little too stupid and impulsive, even for him.

_Nice? I'm fucking terrible to you, are you kidding? Do you even know what you're saying right now? Do you think this is okay?_

Bubba squinted further into the oncoming traffic, forgetting to worry about all the chaos directly in front of him. He barely made it through the intersection in time. Much more driving like this, and he'd surely be ticketed.

"You guess."

Marshal couldn't hear his own words over the pounding of his heart, his face was red and sweaty.

The vehicle was far too hot.

"Sleeping with you is not the automatic equivalent of romantic feelings."

"I saw the flowers."

_Shit._

The road made for a lovely excuse for lack of contact, and Bubba was sure to take full advantage of it. The car ride seemed to stretch on into infinity and the prince deeply regretted letting Marshall on board, he deeply regretted ever getting involved with Marshall at all, and most of all he regretted being born.

"They don't make me your boyfriend."

"You held my head in your lap when I passed out. When I get hurt, you get all crazy-obsessive about it, and sure there's probably some mysterious underlying trauma that guides your concern, but I can't help but thinking that it's more than that."

"Speaking of which, if your tongue healed up weird because you didn't listen to my advice, I'm going to kill you."

Bubba did not respond verbally again after his last retort. They pulled into his vast driveway and the orgasmic mansion once more came in to view, a setting sun on the hell of life. The building itself was compiled art, it demanded both reverence and general attention. But Marshall wasn't thinking of the house at all.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too, especially about your mother. But you were going to hurt me and I almost let you. I can somewhat tolerate obnoxious boys who don't know how to dress, but I draw the line when it comes to people trying to punch my fucking brains out. I was ready to let you, Marshall, if you had tried to kill me and I didn't snap to my senses like that I would have done nothing, I would have let you hurt me and I can't face that anymore. I didn't think you were just like him."

Marshall wasn't sure who "him" was, but he didn't get a chance to ask.

"I love you."

He didn't mean to say it. He didn't even know if it was true. Bubba didn't think love was real, love was getting touched at night and lying and manipulating. But the way he said it, he meant something else. Something a little less bitter and a little more sweet. It was a stupid, stupid think to say, stupid like wearing pink and bribing someone else simply for their company, stupid like being mean as a defensive mechanism, stupid like thinking you worth can be measured by how often your silk naked body stretches up against the bed sheets along with another. Stupid like collecting worn undergarments as a reminder that at least in one aspect you are useful. So maybe it was a lie, but it was by far the most honest lie ever to be expressed to another person Bubba had known.

Only then his mouth kept mouthing, despite the habitual intention of smothering it with another.

"I love you Marshall Lee, okay?! Is that what you're wanting to hear? I love your laugh and your voice and that face you make in your sleep but it all means nothing, because I am absolutely terrified of you. We aren't friends, we aren't boyfriends, we don't even know what the fuck we are doing and I'm scared. I am angry and I'm scared and I barely know you, excluding the pathetic "I'm sad please sleep with me" and "dead mom" persona. Everything was easier after him and before you. I don't need this."

The sun sunk down into the dirt and melted away.

It wouldn't be returning for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments. Someone on Fanfic said they are reporting me, and I don't think they can really report me over essentially nothing but a few depressed ramblings, but just in case, if my story disappears because they find me on here too, that's why.


	29. Who is the Raindrop

"Your doorman is cute."

Bubba's fingers danced gracefully from key to key, flicking letters faster than the speed of light. He paused for a moment to daintily sip at his black coffee, and the steam it emitted fogged up his thick lenses almost immediately.

Fiona stared at him, ignoring the sideways glances of surrounding customers in the cafe. It was freezing out, but the young girl was clothed only in navy blue athletic shorts, and a neon pink sports bra. Not to mention, she was mysteriously entirely covered in foul-smelling soil.

"Can I sit here?" she inquired, not a trace of spite notable in her tone. Bubba shook his head, but she seated herself regardless, slamming against the seat of a small chair in a not so "ladylike" fashion.

"Do you always dress like a slut on weekends?"

"At least I don't behave like one as well."

Bubba smiled, still tapping quickly at his keyboard.

"It's called consistency," he mused, taking another sip of his coffee. The bitter drink was absolutely despicable to Bubba, as he had a preference for sweeter drinks, but anything softer than black was juvenile and immature.

"Is your doorman single?"

Bubba assumed this meant she had visited his house and Flame had answered the door, a bundle of awkward clothed in a cute little tux.

_He must have told her I'd be here,_ he thought, _I'll have to yell at him later._

"He is at the moment." A quick flash of a previous scenario reentered Bubba's mind, the flushed and freckled face that had once been underneath him was mentally revived. Although he likely assumes otherwise.

Bubba looked up from his laptop. The building was slightly larger through his glass lenses, slightly discolored as well. Reds were muted and less vivid, bordering pink but not truly reflecting the hue. At least contacts didn't make it quite so obvious he was visually impaired, they weren't a spotlight on the fact that he was physically imperfect, just another bundle of human flaws struggling to make do in the universe he was granted.

A little boy with grimy fingers scampered towards the cashier, barely restrained by a fat, sweaty woman in sensible shoes. Bubba wondered if his mother had grown to be like that as well, overweight and tired all the time. Perhaps, like Marshall, his mother had died very recently. Perhaps she died the very day he left. Left being the preferred terminology, as opposed to "was abandoned".

"Is that all you wanted? Information regarding my "doorman"?"

"Well, actually-"

The fat woman leaned over as if to ask the boy what he wanted to purchase, and the youngster screeched something about smoothies. The woman then reached into her purse, barely able to fit her thick hands into the itty-bitty bag, and when she did manage, they returned empty.

She bent down to explain herself, but the blond haired brat was not having any of it and began to howl, sobbing to the point where several people in line actually quite rudely covered their ears.

The cashier was starting to look restless and impatient but the kid continued to howl, kicking his little feet and shaking his fists in the air.

Bubba despised the boy, he was loud and obnoxious and likely to drive the poor woman crazy. In general, he had an extreme hatred for all small children, but loud children particularly got his goat.

"He said blueberry smoothie, right?" The teen reached into his wallet, sorting through a wad of cash until he came across a fresh five-dollar bill.

His mother was likely only going to buy him a small, but if supplied with a large, the small child would keep his whiny mouth shut for a longer period of time.

However, time had taken its toll. As Bubba stood to give the woman the money, she was already dragging her son out of the door.

The candy prince shrugged, sitting back down and reopening his laptop. He returned to the symphony of repetitive taps and clicks. Of course that's what would happen when he attempted to make nice, because his universe was stupid.

Fiona's jaw hung below her legs, dangling just above the recently swept floor.

"You were going to pay for her."

He drowned Fio's voice in furious typing, not truly enjoying the excess commentary. Although Bubba had recently gotten his glasses adjusted, their salmon pink and roundish frame still slid slightly down his face as he glanced at the computer screen.

"Why are you really here? Did Marshall tell you to come talk to me?'

Fiona snatched his coffee off of the table, holding the warm cup in her hand. The dark liquid was barely visible through the small hole placed atop the cup's lid. She watched what little bit she could scamper up and down the container's insides at every given tilt in fascination.

"It's very possible," she murmured, ignoring Bubba's frustrated sigh of response. Of course, he was not to be given a moment of peace the sort things out for himself, that would be far too fair. In an almost undetectable motion he had swiped his coffee cup back and it was once more on his side of the petite table. He stole a sip, forcing the cold liquid down his throat although he was far from the sensation of thirst. If anything, the disgusting fluid only heightened his discomfort, adding unease to his very lungs.

Still, it gave off this normalized kind of vibe. It made Bubba feel adult and in control, and in the end it was more about control than comfort or happiness, wasn't it?

"What does he want _now_?"

"Yeesh, someone's got some anger built up inside, eh?"

The constant sliding of his prescription frames was certainly not assisting him as far as intimidation went, nor was the shaky hand that every so often was forced to shove the glasses further up onto the bridge of his nose. Bubba hated looking like this, behaving in such a clumsy manner. Still it seemed these days he just continued to unravel, and it was likely if that trend were to continue there would be nothing left of his exterior at all.

And walking skeletons weren't all that coveted.

"You're by far the worst messenger I have ever encountered. Are you going to tell me what he wants, or are we going to sit here all day playing guessing games?"

_Of course he'd want something more of me. He's probably angry, too. He probably sent her to hurt me all over again. I'll bet he thinks I owe him something. I always seem to owe someone something._

"Well?"

The cheap cafe was certainly not the sort of place one would expect metaphorical royalty to visit. The walls were encased in peeling wallpaper that had once depicted old school Mickey Mouse, though now it was simply colored blurbs awkwardly conjoined. The heater was broken, leaving everyone in the building a shivering mess as they clutched onto their coffees. Obviously, he could afford better, but none of these factors kept Bubs from frequenting this particular spot.

_I never should have trusted him, it was only a matter of time. I knew better._

Fiona tried to catch a glimpse of the other boy's facial expression, but once more he was hiding behind his laptop screen, typing away at who knows what.

"He wanted to come here himself, but figured you wouldn't be so keen on seeing him for some reason."

Of course he did. Can't let me have the last word.

"Marshall just wanted to make sure you're okay."

The incessant typing at last skidded to a halt.

_…What?_

Concern trickled outward from Fiona as well, of all people. As if she had gotten softer and less judgmental of Bubba over the course of mere weeks. Maybe she finally believed him. She peered at him with a tilt of her head, that one line of hair still stringing downward.

"Are you alright? You do seem very different…"

This was not at all what had been expected. _Concern? I ditched him and now I get showered with concern? God, what's with that guy?_

"And, he totally gets if you never want to hear from him again even though he's still a bit confused, but mostly what matters is that you are okay and that you know he's very sorry."

_This can't actually be happening right now. This-this isn't how it goes at all._

"Hello, anyone in there?"

It took Bubba a moment to release he had sort of frozen, and in doing so, forgot entirely to breathe. A heavy gasp, like air from a balloon whisked out just as he opened his mouth to speak.

"You're making this up."

"I assure you, I've done no such thing. So are you okay? Marsh won't tell me anything, and normally I get the whole picture when it comes to anything involving him. Kid's got a mouth. Somehow you always end up being the exception that leaves me completely in the dark, thanks for that."

_I'm the exception?_

It was growing difficult to differentiate from whether the insects in his heart were butterflies or mites. Was he okay? Had he ever been okay? It was such a foreign concept to Bubba, that sort of question. He was used to having all the answers, but even the simplest of questions concerning himself got him all tripped up. At least algebra and forensics weren't so damn personal.

"Why do you care?"

The blonde smiled, swinging her legs underneath the circular table. Outside it had started to rain, and the two teens could hear the desperate water droplets pounding against each and every window, literally dying to get in.

But unless they latched onto some weak, unsuspecting human, they hadn't a chance.

So did that make Marshall the raindrop? Or vice versa?

Due to the cold weather, the precipitation was likely to form sleet or hail, which would lead to even more outdoor commotion. But at least hail was more honestly brutal on impact than rain. At least when it came to hail you knew exactly what you were dealing with and when.

"Nice try, but I asked my question first. Besides, you're the one making an assumption that I'm asking out of anything other than concern for my dearest friend."

"You're going to smell like wet dog when you step outside, you do realize this, right?"

"Are these pathetic attempts how you usually keep Marshall distracted, or do you just get naked?"

It was highly possible that a) Fiona was trying to rile the prince up to get a rise out of him, or b) for some reason she trusted him not get so disproportionately riled again. Either way, it was a stupid call to make.

"You have to find a balance with him, simple as that."

"Fantastic. Now answer my first damn question."

Bubba's mother had never really told him what to do until the day he met his father, and from that day forward his male guardian didn't cut him any slack. There were always orders, there was always yelling and persuasion. Eventually, these were followed by the beatings and…other things.

After his dad was arrested nobody told him what to do ever again, until this particular jock with far too much attitude and too much mouth for her own good. Honestly, she really pushed him over the line and it was a miracle Bubba had not retaliated in any extreme manner as of yet.

A miracle that had a lot to do with some stupid emo boy and his sad, pleading eyes.

So was he really in a position to judge another kid when it came to violence? He could have killed someone over his own family issues, and he expected Marshall to be a monk when it came to his own.

Different. Entirely different. And it's not as if I'm blaming him so much, I just really don't think I could handle seeing his anger in every second I spend with him, worrying he's going to break. He's only human, after all.

"I don't know if I'm okay," he said.

The truth cut like razor blades kissing Bubba's skin, like needles and shards of glass and the knife that almost stopped his heart from beating. The truth hurt more than anything his father did and anything his father could ever do to him. It always did.

He reached for his cup of liquid security only to find it entirely empty and he had never before been so angry at an empty coffee cup as he was then, sitting with the filthy girl in an obscure cafe, watching the rain pour down so intensely that it appeared the ground was leaping upward to swallow up bits and pieces of murky gray sky.


	30. Lights On

Marshall, bundled in a thick plaid blanket, glanced up through the fogged car window. Even through the car's protective casing he could feel the cold digging into his flesh like untrimmed fingernails, like the pins and needles one feels after extreme lack of movement. Fiona, a vision in spaghetti straps and knock-off jeggings, honked her horn and swore loudly. The car in front of her finally obliged, whisking away into the marble night.

Although it was difficult to see properly through the layer of smudge that coated his window, Marshall could tell by the abundant laughter and plethora of flashing lights that the place was swarming with people. People his age, people younger, probably a handful of lonely college dropouts that had had one too many. Parties were where dreams came to die.

Not that Marshall completely hated parties; he had always liked the thrill of flashing lights and the phony company that boosted one's ego. Everyone could be someone important in the right lighting when supplied with booze and cigarettes, the friends were free rentals. Marshall did indeed enjoy a little partying. The problem, however, was that he despised it almost equally so.

Fiona just outright hated them. Still, she had insisted the two of them attend this particular gathering for some unknown reason, and refused to be questioned on it.

"Just because," she stated, struggling with an eyeliner pencil she had clearly never before used in her life. It was unlike Fiona to get dressed up like this, and it wasn't as if she wasn't stunning outside of regularly "girlish" attire, but Marshall could tell she wasn't going to elaborate on that either. To top things off it was a school night, in the middle of the week. Marshall would have surely been able to use late work as an excuse to stay home, if it weren't for the fact his teachers had "seen his note" and found his absences and lack of make-up work entirely "excusable".

Marshall had sent no such note.

And he knew for a fact that Fiona hadn't either.

Marshall shivered underneath the layers of wool, teeth clattering like metal kitchen utensils scraped across plates, silverware screaming in unbearable tones. On the bright side, perhaps this event could supply a decent distraction from his current predicaments, including the "oh shit I have no mom" predicament, and the "I almost punched him in the face and he told me he loved me" predicament.

Somehow Fiona was perfectly comfortable with the chilling temperature despite her lack of coat or blanket. She hopped out of the car after they had parked alongside the street, beckoning for Marshall to do the same. The yelp of a nearby dog was swept away by a brisk wind, away into the clouds and stars that hovered over the home like lost lovers, lingering just a little longer than required of them.

Marshall could relate.

They trudged together towards the front porch, Marshall lagging behind. Someone poked him from behind and he shot for the sky, thankfully not screaming like the small child he felt he was.

"Hey! It's you, from the waiting room. The one with the crazy friends!" Marshall squinted in order to see the face of the person greeting him, and was surprised to find the secretary boy, the one with the weird hair and fancy headphones.

"Hey."

Lee doubted that someone should really address people as "from the waiting room" when first meeting them, or that it was really polite to call a stranger's friends crazy. Then again, Bubba wasn't really his friend to begin with.

"What are you doing here, aren't you old?"

Today the man's hair was deep blue and purple, reminding Marshall of that fluffy monster from some Disney movie. He hated that movie. It made him cry, and Ashley used to make fun of him constantly for it.

The stranger laughed, his voice sounding awkwardly grating yet somewhat squeaky, like a mouse on testosterone.

"Old? I'm like nineteen. Or something…"

The guy scratched his chin, as if he was actually unsure of his own age, but suddenly stopped, grinning as if he had just remembered something very important.

"Has your friend talked about me?"

The cold air was somehow forgotten. Marshall scrunched up his face in confusion.

"My friend?"

_Is he talking about Fiona? That's the only friend he'd know, right? What does he want with Fiona?_

"Yeah, that cute dude you came into the hospital with."

"Marshall resisted the urge to strangle the dumb chump, distracting himself by counting all the foolish scrambling ants that danced along the pavement.

_Cute?_

Bubba wasn't cute, but adorable. Adorable and beautiful all at once. Like cotton candy, like Ferris wheels and colorful icicles. And even if DJ Sully had properly described him, that in no way meant he was worthy of speaking about him like that. Just who did he think he was? Bubba was way out of his league. They weren't even in the same ballpark, or even the same planet.

What was wrong with this guy?

"He gave me his number the other day, but I've been nervous about calling...I was just wondering if he said something about me to you, is all."

Marshall almost laughed out loud. He deserved this. He really wasn't one to cast stones anyways, and if there was one other guy there were probably more. What had made him think he was so special?

Still.

_This guy, of all people?_

One ant stumbled over its cousin's dead body, ignoring the little slip up as it continued along its merry way. No one was stopping to help that one dead ant; it was tossed aside like stale bread. Why pay it any mind when there were millions just like it? All of equal use, equal attractiveness, all ready to be tossed aside like last year's prom dress.

Given his current situation, Marshall could handle things in a mature manner; he could cast aside his own selfish emotions and give this poor soul the encouragement he needed.

Or, he could use his cranium for once and give himself a leg up in the competition.

Fiona had already entered the house, leaving the two alone to converse. The dead ant remained deceased, and the neighbor's dog had ceased his yipping, leaving only the noise of the party, and the mosquitoes buzzing impetuously around Marshall's head.

"Not a word. He's got his eye on someone else now, it seems. You might as well just toss his number, even if he was up for grabs he is so not a fan of blue hair."

And just like that, Marshall accepted his place as angsty jealous asshole who thinks too much and has trouble breathing.

The poor sap looked disappointed, a little less of that signature dopey cheer could be viewed on his soft brown face. But Marshall had more pressing things to feel guilty about, so Beats boy would just have to wait his turn.

"If he asks, tell him Damian said hi, okay?"

Marshall did not respond as he practically skipped into the building, he did not look back to see that his elder peer was now the one staring at ants, no music blasting from bright headphones to soothe him. And he did not take note that the crowd of people that had been surrounding Damien had slowly shifted and made their way inside, leaving the particular individual to be entirely alone.

Even if Bubba did ask, (which Marshall was highly certain would not happen) the teen intended not to relay a single message.

In the confines of the house the cold did not dare bite, there was an overabundance of body heat and loud music, sweaty barbarians clashed against each other and the scent of booze mingled among students. His hoodie trapped these warm and smelly sensations, hugging them close to his anatomy.

Marshall started off in search of Fiona at first. The house's interior was extremely cookie-cutter, there was nothing remarkable or extraordinary to be said of the beige walls and wooden picture frames. It was the people currently residing in the home that told all the stories, fat kids and skinny, scraped knees and bloody noses forgotten or emphasized in the rhythm of the music and alcohol.

In the living room Marshall could've sworn he saw his shitty ex-girlfriend, but the moment he looked back it was merely a room full of strangers. His mind seemed to be playing tricks on him, self-destruction in full swing.

At least the music was a constant guide, calming him whenever he neared the prickly caress of wretched anxiety.

Marshall finally found Fiona in the upstairs hallway, along with some stuttering freckle-faced boy. Over the loud music he couldn't quite register what the two were talking about, but the boy was blushing obnoxiously and Fiona seemed happy.

He debated interrupting the two, but eventually decided against it. His friend was never really too concerned with the subject of boys (unlike himself), so if she was now concerning herself with someone she must have thought pretty highly of them.

_It's so nice to see that everyone prefers ugly dorky boys over me,_ he begrudgingly thought, slinking back down the bland wooden staircase.

As he reached the final step he glanced back upward at Fiona one final time, and in doing so plummeted directly into an unsuspecting victim.

He half expected to get yelled at, or thrown out of the party. The latter would have been a tad extreme, but in the heat of the moment Marshall Lee sort of mentally flipped out.

However, neither of Marshall's scenarios played through, and as he stood back up he found himself face to face with a girl who appeared to be slightly younger than him.

_Junior, perhaps?_

The girl's mouth hung open in shock, her dark eyes were widened with surprise, face framed perfectly by a cute bob of purple follicles.

How could Marshall possibly not recognize her? A girl with a face as visually appealing and as endearing as hers most certainly would have been locked away in his memory; the only logical explanation was that she didn't go to his school.

"I'm so sorry!" she blurted, and Marshall came to realize that her voice was just as cute as her face was. He detected a bit of an Eastern accent when she spoke…perhaps it was Japanese?

"Nah, it's fine," Marshall laughed, running his fingers through his dark hair, only to find a thick knot that he had to awkwardly fight through, "I wasn't watching where I was going, it's probably all my fault anyways."

"Well, I know that," she replied, rolling her eyes. Marshall didn't know girls could be this cute honestly, until meeting her. He found it hard to focus when she spoke, as little butterflies of distraction seemed to find their way into his stomach.

"I was more talking about the stain on your shirt." She took a sip out of her red cup, showing off a set of perfectly groomed, dark purple nails. Clearly, there was some sort of a theme going on.

Up until that point Marshall had not even notice the cold stain seeping into his favorite sweatshirt, running along its cotton surface. Thankfully, it had yet to reach the fabric underneath.

"Again, I'm really sorry about that. Hand it over, I can try and scrub this mess out before the damage is done."

_Nice and pretty, the whole package._

"You really don't have to do that."

"Nonsense!" she chirped, "I insist!"

And with that Marshall's sweatshirt was gone and he was cold once more, without company and without the name or number of the cute Asian girl with the purple hair.

Not that he had any romantic intentions, but it would at least be nice to have another person to talk to. And it wouldn't hurt if they were at least a little bit cute.

Marshall followed his own worn out sneakers until he came to a smooth white door he had not yet opened, it smelled of new picture books and a hint of expo marker. The party was far mellower at the lowest level of the house, a handful of teens stood at the bottom of the basement stairway and smoked cigarettes. Marshall absolutely despised the aroma of cigarette smoke, but as long as he kept away from the basement staircase the smell didn't travel so much.

Several couples swapped saliva in the darker corners of the room, in the center lay a table surrounded by card players, each individual bearing the same tired expression on their face.

Marshall made himself comfortable, leaning against a vacant wall and staring off into the distance. The basement was just as plain as the rest of the house seemed to be, five rusted blue bicycles sat in front of a petite closet door, the walls were a dull white and the couch a sad blue. It occurred to Marshall that this house could belong to literally anyone, and that he had no idea who actually owned it. Fiona had only supplied location, not host. For all he knew, the house was actually in his family's name, and some boring chump had stolen his property and cleaned it up to appear nice and commercial, indistinguishable from any other boring house in existence.

The basement had its own source of music, perhaps the most unique thing regarding the entire building. On the table sat a record player, setting sorrowful songs into the atmosphere with its sinful spinning. This music suited the environment well; softer gentler tones could be heard, as opposed to the dance music blasting on the upper levels. Marshall recognized the current song playing, and feeling at ease he sang pathetically along, enchanted by the majestic sound waves.

_"Some people say that I want you for your money, but I really want you for your body,_

_"Pleased to meet you baby, I want to be your honey, so let's go tell your daddy and mommy."_

It was even colder in the basement, Marshall was sure to catch something in only a thin t-shirt but there was little he could do about it at the moment. He continued to sing line after line, careful not to raise his voice to the extent that would draw unwanted attention to him.

_'And I've tried not to destroy you baby_

_Even though we both know I can."_

Marshall probably had not been at the party for a very long period of time but already it felt like the night was drawing to an end and the moon was waving goodbye, the card players had all left the basement, possibly to go home or possibly to rejoin the lively side, but the music was still playing and the smokers hadn't budged.

_"Make love with the lights on baby, tell me what you see_

_Clear the bed to lie on darling,_

_Make a mess of me."_

Marshall's mouth snapped shut. He had heard himself sing that last line but upon realizing that he wasn't the only vocal accompaniment, he turned his head towards the newfound sound. Bubba was standing there too, right next to him.

Singing along.

Marshall couldn't see his own face due to the lack of any mirrors and proper lighting, but he was certain he was blushing, his torso was still frozen solid yet his face was an oven.

Bubba's voice was beautiful, the kind of art that couldn't even be bought with mere cash. He was beautiful, his voice was beautiful, and he was present right then, singing next to Marshall, so close their shoulders were touching. It felt like a dream. Or perhaps, a hallucination. It had to be that Marshall had somehow gotten drunk off his ass, because there was no way that the candy prince was truly there in that cold basement with him, singing along to one of his favorite songs while the world was at standstill.

Marshall's jaw was sewn shut but Bubba gestured for him to keep going, so he had no choice but to open his mouth and try again.

_"Ca-Ca-Can I have your number?_

_Can I have your baby?_

_Can we run away together?"_

Bubba was up against him now yet Marshall still felt so, so cold, they were singing in harmony and Marshall could feel the other boy's heartbeat pounding up against his chest, he closed his eyes and in that darkness he saw everything.

The music shook him and Bubba shook him and together they sang the song all the way through, leaned up against one another in some sort of unspoken mutual agreement. Marshall stayed like that, with his eyes locked shut, propped up against the basement wall. He stayed like that long after the song ended, long after Bubba left and only his own breathing reached his ears.

He stayed like that until Fiona found him and drove them both home, leaving The Pierces and the purple girl and his sweatshirt all behind.


	31. Deceased Butterflies

5:45 P.M.

Ms. Mint's car pulled into the driveway, glistening gold glint glimmering in the sunlight. Her Top Secret Japanese model slid smoothly into place along the perimeter of the car, as Pippa did not like to pull into the garage unless she absolutely felt it necessary. She truly didn't have to work, she did not have to get dressed up nice and drive away daily in order to make a living. Her mother's passing had left her side of the family with more than enough money than they knew what to do with so she could very well spend all of her time at home, but being cooped up like that did not suit her tastes in the slightest.

Not to mention, as much as she loved her nephew, he wasn't the most sociable at home, and tended to bring home random boys that made her uncomfortable, not so much for any studying.

She entered the home in a cheery mood, whistling an old show tune. Flame greeted Pippa at the door, awkwardly taking her coat into his scrawny arms and placing it on the hanger, although the faux fur seemed to weigh more than he did.

Ms. Mint practically skipped onto the beauteous kitchen that she was so blessed to call her own, dropping smiles with every step. Today has been a particularly great day at work, Pippa had successfully met her weekly quota, and some customer had so graciously complimented her eyeliner job, so all was well. It was a wee bit shocking to her person that her makeup would be praised on the day she spent the least amount of time on it, but Ms. Mint was certainly not one to question good things.

Unlike her nephew, who even now, as she entered the kitchen, was doing just that.

Bubba sat at the wooden table with its clean cherry finish, squinting at a pile of index cards as if he expected one of them to draw a pistol and end his life at any given moment. On each card Marshall's scribbly handwriting could be seen, messy blue-ink ramblings etched into striped rectangles.

_Song quotes,_ Mint mused, after a quick glance at the handwritten collection of text, _the cards are covered in song quotes_.

The longer Ms. Mint stared, the more she could practically picture the song playing in her head; if given more time to evaluate the lyrics she would have surely matched them to a particular Pierces song, but Bubba caught her glance at last and covered them with his hands, wrapping the index cards in loving embrace.

Bubba's once hateful stare melted into one of pure embarrassment, the ocean changing tides along the pristine lines of his face. He refused to look his aunt in the eye.

Bubba held the cards in his lap now, still warming them with his soothing touch. The whole situation was really quite interesting, and Pippa felt the urge to pry, as it was more than unusual to see her nephew so protective of some flimsy inanimate objects, especially those that just a moment ago he had appeared to despise.

"I didn't hear you walk in."

"Well, in your defense you were quite distracted by whatever that is you're trying so desperately to hide from me," she sung, gleefully patting his head before making her way to their sparkling refrigerator. Bubba blushed, rolling his eyes at his aunt, and retreating silently to his room as if nothing had ever happened.

Ms. Mint had learned over time to be cautious with the familial touches, though Bubba did not always voice his discomfort certain kinds of affection made him squirm a little, and too much physical contact quite easily revealed he was still pretty untrusting of any form of legal guardian, still ready to jump into defense mode at the drop of a hat. It wasn't anything personal, he was just still very selective about he would and wouldn't tolerate, and given his situation it wasn't all that alarming.

Pats on the head were acceptable on occasion (despite being a little cheesy and embarrassing), hugs and kisses were not.

For some reason, for the boys he brought home the rules were quite different.

The loving aunt hummed softly to herself as she prepared dinner, joining along in the symphony of the birds that were residents of the surrounding woodsy area. She cracked open the kitchen window that hung lazily just over the sink so both musical parties could better hear each other, and continued in her work. Swirls of now-fading sunlight splashed and bounced among the colorful walls, singing in delight. Within a fair amount of time the previously vacant room now exploded with the aromas of cheesy lasagna, a scent that wildly contrasted to the clean, almost soapy scent that could typically be smelt in any individual room of the house.

As usual Mint did not have to call her nephew down to eat because he automatically appeared once dinner was ready. The less spoken word involved in their interaction, the more at ease he appeared to be.

For a Tuesday everything had actually run quite smoothly for the both of them, and although Bubba was certain not to mention it, he too had indeed had a great day, possibly the best one since ever. So they both sat on their clouds of exuberance, silently enjoying the only meal they ever shared in a single given day. Bubba had not brought the cards back down with them and Pippa was still very much intrigued by what their purpose may have been, or the source from which he received them because there was no way he would ever personally form words so sloppily. But Bubs hated being questioned, and she wasn't sure if now was the best time to test the waters anyways. Honestly, there would likely never be a best time, and either she accepted that as fact or he would likely grow to hate her for being just as nagging and forceful of everyone else.

Bubba's aunt had the same sad eyes as his mother despite her joyous persona, and Bubba did as well. They sunk in slightly more than necessary; their pupils were wide yet their eyelids sagged like aging skin. Secretly, Bubba wondered if this meant it was possible that his aunt had also been harassed by his father for her appearances, but he would never actually question her on this, nor would he even low-key imply it. Sometimes knowledge wasn't everything, if it came at the risk of further exposing oneself.

Marshall's eyes were entirely different. Marshall's eyes were butterflies locked in glass chambers, frozen over in perpetuum and coated in a layer of thin ice that held onto them through the loneliest of nights. Marshall's eyes were freaky, but pretty at the same time, and it did not hurt that they came with the whole package.

Then again, it kind of had to hurt, didn't it? In a different kind of way.

It was as they bathed the grimy dishes in soapy water that the home phone rang, a tear in the canvas of a previously picturesque evening.

Ms. Mint, being the social butterfly of their miniature family, rushed to pick it up, only to pause the moment she saw the font laced so firmly along the rectangular phone screen.

Her usually bright smile was now ashes on an incense burner, she stared silently at the phone while she struggled to comprehend what she had just seen.

Suds bubbled and flooded the sink, pushing up towards the skylines and then down towards the tile in frantic motions. Bubba was off-put by this kind of behavior and had stopped scrubbing at invisible food crumbs, the sink was leaking and his mind was leaking and the house had been entirely flooded with panic and void and soapy dishwater.

"Who is it?" he asked, it was hard to hear him through the bubbles but he asked anyways,

"Who's calling, aren't you going to pick up?"

And she could have answered honestly, his aunt could have read aloud the name she had seen on the ID section of the glowing screen and ruined everything. But she didn't.

"No one," she informed him, picking up the phone and then hanging it back up again so that the violent screams of the machine would finally come to a complete end.

"Absolutely no one." Pippa did not look so happy anymore, she looked weary and old, a hollowed out walnut with crackly skin, like one of those inhuman old ladies one might find in Syfy horror movies, despite the fact that in actuality she was barely thirty years old, despite the fact that she was in perfect condition and exercised regularly.

The next day, all of their phones had been disconnected. Neither party talked about it.


	32. Cards, Clips, and Coincedences

Marshall was down to his last index card, he realized, as he shoved the last one through those harsh metallic locker slants. There was always the option of looking for work, but he had no car, and if he was going to start thinking financially, parchment should probably not be his first priority. Food and electric bills definitely fell a little higher on the list, regardless of personal infatuations.

Marshall had a way of going about this little note game. Near the end of his last class he got a bathroom pass and snuck off to Bubba's locker. Not complicated really, but it kept him from being called out or caught in the act, it kept him from the risk of any confrontation regarding a process so awkward and embarrassing.

Or so he thought.

As Marshall pulled his fingers away from the rusted metal slots, a boy beside him cleared his throat. Lee nearly leaped straight out of his skin at the mere sound, the hairs along the back of his neck stood completely on end like bunched up animal dander. Due to his miniature outburst he came quite close to slicing open his finger open on that rigid middle lining, and his body tensed at the narrow escape. Typical of his clumsy self, to end up with an injury even after the simplest of tasks. Bubba would've just shaken his head at the sight.

"This isn't your locker."

In case it wasn't obvious. Just in case Marshall wasn't well aware that he was several turns and hallways away from his typical spot, because all he would have needed to keep from losing all sense of direction was a not-so friendly reminder from some one he could hardly stand listening to.

The voice certainly did not belong to Bubba. The very pitch was centuries off, instead of flowing honey it was nails forced across screeching chalkboard. Marshall looked down to see a squinting vision in yellow, appearing just as mean as ever. Perhaps suicide would have been a more desired outcome, perhaps the removal of one's testicles with a rusty butter knife. Now that he had been caught, it appeared he had only one logical option.

Run. Far away from here, transfer schools and grow out his facial hair to accompany a quite necessary name change.

He was just about to make a run for it, before he realized one particular detail that he had entirely neglected.

If he ran away and never returned, who would buy more index cards?

_Stupid brain, always thinking of these things…_

Marshall inwardly groaned. If he didn't gather his bearings, he was basically dead, might as well jot down his will with that leaky ink pen that remained uncapped and protruding out of his front pocket. All of his belongings might as well go to Fiona, Bubba had no need for poor people clothing and his ex wasn't getting shit.

Marshall's body awkwardly shifted a little from side-to-side as he debated what he might say or do to justify his actions to the tiny nosy demon; all the while fully unaware that his movements were causing friction betwixt the top of his pen and the inside of his denim pocket. Black smudges grew blacker with every swaying motion, the outside upper corner of his blue jeans had not quite been leaked through to the extent that someone unaware of what was occurring would see for themselves, but it was certainly heading in that direction.

"It isn't yours either!" he finally blurted, resting at last on his two feet. His words would have been rated three stars at most by a professional dialogue critic. They weren't exactly witty or clever or unique, but they seemed fitting for his particular scenario, and you really can't expect much of dialect formed by a teenage boy's impulses.

Three stars would have to do.

The writing utensil jammed so forcefully into his pocket was still seeping that blue-black color and ruining what was quite likely his last good pair of blue jeans, and when Marshall discovered this he was sure to be pissed. Shopping was an unwelcomed hassle, thousands of families overpopulating sweating buildings, screaming to their loved ones from glorified caves meant for stripping, always needing larger sizes. Shopping was animalistic. And not in a good way.

Not to mention, there was always the potential humiliation of arriving at the counter with only the cheapest and most poorly made items, and discovering you don't even have enough cash to cover the bare necessities of clothing.

Angel seemed taken aback that Marshall would even bear the audacity to declare such a statement. His squinted at him as if he had grown a second head of some sort, because to him it seemed the only logical explanation for Marshall to be spouting such jibberish. The "squinty glare" was practically his signature look, not only did it allow him to appear more toad-like in appearance, it somehow caused him to come off as even more of a nuisance than he did naturally.

Marshall almost felt bad for him really. He was a joke to everyone, even his plethora of friends. He strung his words awkwardly and had a stupid name, and honestly Marshall was starting to wonder if he was mean out of meanness or was by now just playing the part society had cast him. It was like he was too much of an asshole to honestly be an asshole. _Maybe that's really why Bubba hangs out with him all the time._

"I'm his friend, unlike you," Angel finally retorted, placing his scrawny hands on his hips like a sassy soccer mom. His own clothes seemed hesitant to follow him; his body was so bone thin that his extra small designer shirt drowned his upper half like layers of the wild sea. Angel probably never ate, or if he did, his body surely didn't hold it for long. Was he even "prep" material? The poor kid stuck out like a sore thumb, like a half empty can of beer surrounded by well-aged champagnes and elegant ice sculptures. Egg boy wasn't elegant; he smelled like poor cooking and never managed to quite reach the back of his head with his expensive hairbrush.

And yet another thing happened along with the movement of those baby hands, Marshall caught sight of a glimmer of silver, a flash of gray tucked sloppily betwixt the other boy's fingers. At first his mind jumped straight to "knife", but then he came to his senses.

That "thing" was far too small and skinny to be a knife, and it looked somewhat dull and strangely twisted, as if it were forcefully straightened.

Despite being unable to see the piece's entirety, Marshall quickly caught on.

"What are you doing with that?" he demanded, pointing at the paper clip. The ink had seeped through his pant fabric by now, creating an ugly bruise along the surface of his clothing, mimicking a squashed beetle that one might find smeared along cold concrete.

Something in the younger boy's demeanor changed at that moment. His previously narrowed eyes widened to the size of sausages, and he quickly crammed his grimy fists into his pockets so as to deny the evidence if necessary.

"Th-that's none of your business, Marshall!" he spat, trying to be threatening although he appeared now much more like a cornered kitten, far too small and delicate to stand even a second in battle.

Paper clips, as many are aware, have two more common uses. Holding paper together, and breaking locks. And if you are hanging around someone else's locker with a paper clip that has been reshaped in a way that more benefits lock-picking, all the while the owner of said locker is in class, it is highly probable that you aren't in that specific location at that specific time to clip homework assignments together.

The beating of Marshall's heart grew faster as his pulse rose up to his ears, for if Angel was going to snoop where he shouldn't he would find the note. Or even worse, he already knew about them, and had been checking in for quite some time.

His vision was red and his heart was a screaming stone, Lee bit his lip so as not to release a low growl that had risen from its resting place in his throat.

"Give it to me."

Foolishly, Angel stuck his pointed nose high in the air out of defiance. There was a strange expression folded in his face, as if he expected to be attacked, almost as if he wanted it.

"No."

Like a rabid tiger free from its cage, Marshall leapt, grabbing the boy by his shoulders in attempt to wrestle the metallic trinket out of his hands before Angel was able to put it to use. It certainly was not a fair fight, for although Marshall was scrawny and unathletic he still had a bit of meat on him, and was much taller and angrier than the boy clothed in yellow.

Angel squirmed underneath the weight of the taller teen, he spit and cried out all the while he twisted his twiggy limbs but it was all to no avail, he was by far inferior in comparison. Still he kept his left hand securely locked into his pocket, holding onto the clip as if his life depended on it.

As if on cue Bubba was standing in front of him. Many words could be used to describe the expression that stuck to his face like super glue, but "happy" was certainly not one of them.

"Is this always how you settle things Marshall, beating the shit out of people?"

The two of them quickly untangled limbs, both struggling to catch their breath under the watchful eye of a man in pink that was not particularly amused.

The whole concept of attacking someone over a fucking paper clip seemed stupid now, and Marshall was repulsed by himself. What kind of a reaction was that? What the hell was his problem?

Even if he had seen the notes, someone was bound to find out eventually, right?

Although he had just eaten a few hours ago, his mouth was dry and his body was shaking, Marshall felt as if his stomach was empty and it made him want to puke until the colored specs interrupting his vision danced away.

"Christ, is this what happens every evening before the bell rings?! We all gather around and brawl it out over nothing around my locker without even inviting me? I guess that's a shame I keep on missing out on the fun."

Angel had a rosy color about his cheeks, despite the fact that his eyebrows were still so angrily furrowed downward.

"What's that in your pocket?"

No response. The oh-so-mouthy brat had nothing left to say, but he stuck his hand out obediently. A thin line of blood sat on his palm, clearly depicting the lack of common sense which one must bear in order to think clutching onto the edge of a potentially sharp object.

At the sight of blood Bubba automatically snapped into doctor mode, reaching into his own pink pastel pocket for a properly sized bandage. He could focus on what Angel had so obviously intended to do later, but for the time being he was far more focused on the miniscule wound that had formed along the canvas of the whiny boy's skin.

"I don't see how you could possibly think squeezing something dangerous like that was anything outside of the epitome of moronic, and it won't be happening again, understood?"

Angel just nodded.

"The whole point of leaving early was so that I wouldn't be late for my appointment, but tending to you two idiots is going to make me late regardless, so I appreciate that."

Marshall merely stood there, feeling justifiably like a complete jerk.

It seemed the prince had completely forgotten of his existence until he finally opened his locker, reaching for the index card. And in one swift movement, he ripped it.

Marshall would have much rather been shot in the face.

"Hand."

It took Marshall amount to register that he was now the one being spoken to, but when he did he awkwardly exposed his palm upward, still feeling quite ashamed of himself.

When their hands touch the sparks was still there, along with the flames, yet somehow it hurt much more than it once had.

"If you can't find a garbage bin, I'm sure your arse would make a very nice storage place."

_Did he just…_

By now Angle had forgotten entirely about his injured arm, and had returned to a proud smirk since he was not the one receiving the scolding. If Marshall and Bubba were once more against each other, in his eyes it was a win.

Marshall on the other hand, did not feel like such a winner. His pocket was repulsively slimy, and he still had yet to notice. Despite only having a few more minutes before the bell, he trudged back to his class, not sure where else to go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The foreshadowing is (somewhat) strong with this one.
> 
> If anyone can tell where I'm going I apologize in advance, this chapter just came to me and everything's starting to line up in my head, I've got angsty plans and I'm crying silently about it. Which is funny because I just finally came up with the perfect "happy" ending and it's actually my favorite positive themed chapter I've ever created, but my angst either means I've got a long way till ending this story, or the happy ending I had planned just won't be used.
> 
> Yes! In case you haven't noticed I've been skipping Tuesdays. Because I forgot that apparently at high school you have stupid fucking exams, so I'm rushing to make sure all my shit's turned in and I'm mostly just studying and sleeping. The only way I got this posted was this glorious thing called Winter Break, which basically falls right before the actual exams begin to take place. After I get my shit handed I promise I can go regular again, please don't hate me.
> 
> Maybe I'll write a quick gumlee one-shot for the holidays, I've got about five unfinished works I could pull out for that. (Stop judging me please, I love the gays. It helps with your self-esteem if you're gay and you love the gays, actually.)
> 
> Also another personal update no one cares about! I live in a place where I can't really identify like this in real life situations so much, but sine I started hiding my boobs and shit I've been thinking...and all my life I've kinda deep down been so uncomfortable when people use the word "girl"to refer to me, and when I jokingly call myself a guy I always actually get upset when people correct me, I mean I don't actually say anything about it to them but yeah. So at least online I'm feeling out the whole genderfluid thing because I think that suits me, and if I'm wrong I'm sure I'll figure it out eventually, right? Irl the only person who knows is my little sister, it's kinda sad she's the only one but y'know.
> 
> So just know I'm fine with "he" pronouns and for the most part it seems more comfortable with them. Maybe when I move out and live somewhere else I can try being more public about it if that's still how I feel.
> 
> Thanks for 6k on Fanfic! You're all too kind to this sad trash can that is me


	33. Fri(ends)

The lower one’s level of brightness, the more potential for even a mere second of extra battery life, and a second could mean the difference between knowing of an event at the exact moment said happening occurred, and knowing much later, due to the time-consuming concept of phone chargers. That being said, Bubba had left his phone brightness at the lowest possible setting, and his screen was so dim he practically needed to squint just to even catch a glimpse of what was on display. 

And squinting was not such an attractive expression at all.

But then again, neither was stress in general, and Bubba was spending his days wound tight enough to amaze even the most extreme BDSM enthusiasts. (Speaking metaphorically of course.) All the stress mixed with the constant squinting, and dabbed with a lack of decent sleep and lack of Marshall, made for a very shoddy emotional and physical state.

Angel, not being quite as incompetent as he was so often credited to be, was 100 percent sure that something was up. Even if he was not sure exactly what that something was. He lay with his head in the other boy’s lap, staring up at the miraculously clean ceiling with the sort of intensity that gave him a bit of a headache, and deepened the frown wrinkles resting upon his jagged toothpick face, folded to follow suit with the scrawny child’s complex facial movements.

“You won’t stop looking at your phone,” he whined, finally addressing the elephant in the room. (Not the actual, literal pink porcelain elephant however, that had been removed from its particular wooden shelf where it regularly sat, and in its place was a clean and dust-free surface void of any pleasant knick-knacks or gifts.)

“Just what exactly are you waiting for your phone to do, perform the Macarena? Your staring is weirding me out,” Angel added, watching the blank canvas of artificial sky as a hawk might eye its prey.

Bubba sighed, releasing air like hectic helium from a pinpricked balloon, he smiled despite his eyes not joining in on the act. He squinted to check his phone once more, holding it angled on his left side so as not to block Angel’s line of vision. He saw the screen. But still there was nothing worth seeing. 

“Don’t concern yourself with it, alright?”

“Well whoever he is, that you’re expecting to reach out to you, I’m sure he’s not worth it anyways,” the grumpy teen quipped, rolling over and burying his face where the back of his head previously was. As usual, he was completely inconsiderate and oblivious to his surroundings. The “prince” nudged him, and he glared but followed command.

“You assume it’s a romantic or sexual pursuit? You think that’s all my life is about?”

Angel, now standing, scratched at his scrawny chin with a single bony finger. It was awkward seeing him perform even the most mundane of tasks, like his bones were too weak for any sort of movement and the hinges meant to guide every action were creaky, as if every action was beyond possible, and if it did not result in collapse, it should be treated as a godly miracle.

“Well let’s see, it’s either a dumb boy, or…”

And thus begins The Guessing Game. A certain something that (due to his choice in friends), the currently brightly clad teen had grown to be quite skilled at.

“It’s getting late Angel, you should probably get going.”

In truth it was barely past twelve pm, just a little over the socially acceptable time for meal outings. It was still fairly bright outside, because of this early hour; the sky was still seasoned with serendipitous sprinkles of sunshine. 

“It’s your dad, isn’t it?” 

“Could you talk any louder please darling, I don’t think they quite got the message in China.”

“Yikes,” Angel replied, scrunching up his face so that the bony bits all squished together to form a smaller, more pixelated picture, “you’re a bit mean when I’m right.”

“And I’m nice when you’re wrong? I don’t want to talk about it okay, these aren’t things you need to hear.”

Angel stuck his tongue out. He yanked a book out roughly from one tightly packed wooden shelf, allowing several titles to fall to the floor. His grimy fingers fumbling over clean-cut creamy sheets caused Bubba to wince. 

To distract himself from the human mess and its manifestation, as well as to tame the bats in his rib cage, he checked his phone again.

Angel, being Angel, ended up taking the entire mysterious situation personally, yet another time one of his few friends took a firm stance against him 

“You always treat me like a big dumb baby, you can tell me things, you know.”

Bubba hesitantly set his phone down, atop the baby skin soft comforter. It seemed conveniently to refuse release for a moment, but Bubba persisted. Face down this time, he forced the screen to stare at the same bed sheet Nothing that guest bodies grew accustomed to. 

“Because you totally tell me things.” 

“I mean, I never hide anything, unlike some people.” Angel slapped the book pages together furiously as they turned, and Bubba was quite certain that if the trend continued he would rip something irreplaceable.

Bubba was back on his phone, trying his hardest to very quietly exit this conversation before things got too heated.

But Angel wasn’t having it.

“Ask me anything, pretty boy. Got nothing secret from my bro.” 

Bubba cringed at the poor grammar and the usage of bro, tensing a little involuntarily, a turtle retreating to its porcelain shell. 

“Angel, you know for a fact that you do not want me to do that.”

But some people just don’t know when or how to back down and Angeline was one of those types of people, a tiny creature of stubborn, unapologetic rage.

“Try me.”

There comes a time when one must ultimately choose how they want a particular ending to play out based on their role in said scenario, and this is surely where the whole “think before you speak” phrase must have originated from, some dumbass struggling with the concept of honesty (and lack thereof) and how it overlaps the notion of human relationships.

On both sides, neither child was completely open about their situations although much was inferred. As a matter of fact, just the other day when Angel had been caught snooping, the whole ordeal was finalized with the simple exchange of locker combinations, no interrogation or explanations required.

 _“Next time you want to snoop around, do yourself a favor and don’t get caught,”_ Bubba had advised, and that was the end of that.

Obviously there were still secrets on both ends, silently protected on daily basis, hot liquids bubbling and boiling just beneath a thin layer of Friendship Crust. 

One would think that amount of delicacy would forever remain cherished and held sacred regardless, but when thrown a lighter, sometimes the only thing Bubba knew how to manage was watching the world burn.

“Alright,” the prince responded, standing up at last so as to gather the abandoned novels off of the floor before any more damage was done to their anatomies. He returned them to their wooden homes as he spoke, avoiding eye contact, which was quite unlike him.

“When’s the last time you ate? And I mean ‘ate’ as in it was not immediately proceeded by vomiting.”

A slight twitch in the living human skeleton that had had the audacity to invite itself over to begin with, but it was everything.

“Fuck you,” Angel spat, glaring loud daggers with the pools of dark in his eyes and speaking venom with his saliva.

Very intentionally, Bubba had brushed over one of the two topics not to be spoken of, and the corresponding second would have surely followed. 

It would have, that is, if not for the resounding, interruptive “ding!” that sliced through the current ambiance like a diamond blade through hot butter. 

The “ding” that originated approximately four inches away from the bottom left corner of Bubba’s plush pastel mattress.

 Exactly where Bubba had left his dimly lit cell phone.

 

Another ding. Then another. Then five on top of each other.The screen lit up like rapid-fire lightning, splashing its light downward onto the thick layer of blanketing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I still exist. I can hardly believe it either. You all have been so sweet about everything, hell I had this shit half typed for about a month actually I just figured it was bad and no one wanted to read it. But judging by the fact I keep getting comments about an update, I figured maybe I could make an effort. (I went over it of course, I'm tryna take your critiques to heart while juggling everything else so I apologize if I left something out that anyone gave advice on.)
> 
> So here it is, the chapter that brushes over another character that no one gives a shit about except me. He is my son and I love all my children so you will have to deal, also Bubba needs his own real friend so he's not just emo and scary all the time. Marshall doesn't quite count yet.
> 
> Also, in between I have been writing a bunch of side stuff for this that I forget to add, like flashbacks and whatnot, so that might help if I want to refurbish some of that to help with weekly updates. Heh. Refurbish. I like that word.
> 
> -Writer (Ily all)


	34. Custody

Marshall craned his neck. How many hours had it been now, two? It certainly felt like more. He could hear footsteps run rampant outside the cardboard box of a waiting room. (There probably was a more proper term, but Marshall had taken to calling it that after just 30 minutes, for self -explanatory reasons.) Hurried, hurry hurrying. _You’d think that amidst all of this bustle, someone would have checked in on me by now._

Marshall glanced upward. 

Above his seat there was a small square window, wrapped in polyester curtain and the breathes of whatever other abandoned children ended up here. The sun was strangled by grayblue fabric, coughing peeks of light only through the slightest of gaps betwixt flabby polyester fingers.

_If I only had something to boost me up…_

_Or someone._

But alas, hoping was not getting him anywhere, which at this point shouldn’t have surprised Marshall in the slightest.

People lose their minds being in isolation for too long, they start seeing things and growing violent and angry, transitioning into that classic ‘needs a shrink’ media trope.

The room was not only miniature, it was also relatively vacant, no magazine or television in sight. Outside of the single high-placed window, Marshall’s current area contained only the ice cold chair he presently sat in, a parasite sized coffee table that made the Kleenex box resting upon it look ginormous, and a small couch adjacent to the formerly mentioned chair, which somehow miraculously fit in between that kiddie prison of four thick walls. 

Marshall was most definitely going to be late for school. As a matter of fact, he would probably be late for school for the rest of his short lifetime, because he would never leave that room, and would instead rot away in this sentenced solitary confinement, going back to the ground from whence he came.

_Maybe I’ll see Mom again._  

Dramatics aside, Marshall was a bit legitimately worried. If these people couldn’t find his father or someone else to care for him, then what happens? Foster care? Marshall had heard enough of Fiona’s stories to know that wasn’t the most ideal way to live. And just how far would he have to move? Although there wasn’t much to miss in this town it would just feel wrong to leave it all behind, especially before graduating high school at the very least.

Definitely not for any specific recognizable reason of course.

Just because.

Marshall swung his feet back forth, in tune with some obscured rhythm. He hummed, paced, and finally returned to his seat after tripping over his own shoelaces too many times for a mathematician to count. (He stubbornly refused to tie them.) Finally, he retreated to his seat again. He kicked the couch in front of him.

“Thwump”, replied the couch.

 For some reason Marshall found the noise hilarious. He chuckled and kicked it again.

 “Thwump,” agreed the couch.

 “Finally, someone who understands me.”

 Footsteps. They sound of soles slapping solid surfaces slipped in and out of Marshall’s auditory detection. Always footsteps.

 Marshall kicked the couch again. The bottom of his sneaker left a dusty grey imprint along the arm of the cushioned seat before him, a dirty footprint in the paper pale snow.

_Someone could have at least set up a music playlist, or television of some sort. There’s not even a single measly magazine in here for my entertainment…_

Marshall distracted himself with thoughts about Bubba and a plethora of questions followed suit, like ducklings relentlessly clambering after their mother.

_Stupid._ He kicked the couch again, embedding another dusty footprint onto the canvas of cloth skin. Sometimes it was just easier to hurt other things than to let yourself hurt.

 Marshall didn’t have quite as many questions about Bubba anymore.

 After several decades of nothing but waiting, the door to the pocket-sized room slithered open, revealing a short man with blond hair that drooped downward towards the carpet, as if trying to slide off of its owner’s head in favor of living life as a permanent flooring fixture.

 Marshall grinned, tossing his anger and impatience aside like cold soup left out on a winter’s night. “Finally. I was starting to think you guys forgot about me.”

 The hippie-looking man nodded to show comprehension, but based on the wandering of his eyes he appeared lost and generally in a trance. The man drearily began to open his mouth, reminding Marshall of a sloth drowning in molasses. When he spoke, his voice dragged and lagged like his bodily movements.

 “Caaaan you pleease stop kicking stuff arooound?”

  _Are you serious?_ Marshall thought _, Hours of waiting in here and that’s literally all you’ve got_ to say to me?

 Apparently it was, because after his few words, the stocky blond man existed the scene, shutting the cherry stained wood door behind him.

 “Great,” Marshall moaned, slumping back into his seat with newfound disappointment.

 “Thwump!” exclaimed the little couch; only Marshall didn’t laugh this time.

 The weather was relatively nice outside of the child services building, the sun was shining and birds were singing, grimy little children in nearby neighborhoods slurped melted popsicle off of their sticky palms. But none of these “feel good” happenings could be translated and experienced beyond the thick walls of Marshall’s little mini prison, and instead of birds singing, his accompanying audio for the time being was nothing more than rushed feet and the unsteady sound of his own raspy breathing.

 Today was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't watched AT recently actually do I qualify as worst human yet? I mean I heard there's gonna be another Fiona episode and for all I know it came out and I missed it...
> 
> Love ya'll  
> (Ya'll. Fucking ya'll. I'm starting to think redneck is contagious.)
> 
> -Writer


	35. NUMBers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh emo chapter title because I'm the worst, 10/10 job there

Bubba cleared his throat, dropping his miniature cell phone on the clean kitchen counter. A resounding “clink” could be heard as solid surface met surface, the kind of “clink” that can easily grab someone’s attention like a knife in the heart, for at the very least a few seconds before releasing them. And grab it did. Ms. Mint had glanced away from the stove out of curiousness.

“I guess you should throw this one out too,” the teen spat, not giving his aunt much time to register quite what was going on.

She rushed over to the item of interest regardless, leaving her steamed vegetables to steam some more in pathetic alienation. Seeing the screen for the first time her eyes grew wide as cooked sausages. The extra fatty kind. 

“Bubba I-“ 

“Were you ever planning on telling me he got out of jail, or were you going to wait till My Little Rapist broke into our house for a quaint little “surprise visit”? I mean, I’m genuinely confused as to how you intended to keep this under wraps, so a handful of answers would be nice.”

His aunt sighed sadly, remorsefully. She reached out to comfort him but was immediately shot down, as her nephew whisked just barely out of reach, fast enough to avoid contact but not quit fast enough to obscure the absolutely petrified look residing on his face. 

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” 

Ms. Mint jumped, both astonished and ashamed by her nephew’s fast thinking reflexes. _He’s practiced this, hasn’t he? He had to “train” himself to be so reactive._

Bubba breathed inward slowly, a stiff manikin moving only a portion of his chest. In. Out. InOut. Trying desperately to settle down.  The pasta atop the stove was practically overheating by this point, but it wasn’t exactly top priority.

Bubba ran his shaking fingers through his hair. The follicles were growing a little shaggy in the back. He’d have to get around to fixing that up sometime. The front door swung open and shut within the short timeframe of a single frantic heartbeat. Angel was gone. Both technically and legally the kid couldn’t drive, so it probably wasn’t the smartest idea to just let him storm off like that, but there were other more prevalent matters to attend to. 

He looked down at his shirt, as if fearful of what could have been if the attempt at physical contact had been successful. The room was shrinking, his panic growing, Bubba did not want to be here anymore but he had to know the truth, or at least a version that would ease his nerves.

 “Look, never mind the details. I don’t want to make this a heart-to –heart kind of thing, alright? But at the very least you could tell me how long he’s been out, and how the hell he has every single phone number that could possibly link him back to here.”

Ms. Mint swayed back and forth back and forth backandforth.

 “Sweetheart, I really don’t think now’s the best time to get into this.” 

“I almost got killed just trying to put his psychotic ass away, so yeah it’s definitely not the “best time”, Bubba agreed, meandering over to the stove and flicking the switch off in one precise motion. (At times like this it sure would be nice to have a somewhat efficient butler) “-you should have told me a whole lot sooner.”

* * *

 

_The other two I'm putting up today will be longer children I swear on my life._

_-Writer_

 


	36. Chapter 36

“I love you,” Marshall breathed outward. The words slipped across his lips like butter melting over a fireplace, like wet palms against a shampoo-coated surface there was no control or restraint involved. They danced across the room like unapologetic fireworks before sinking into Bubba’s brain and forming barbells.

“Marshall-“

He looked up at the other teen, chuckling nervously, looking for just a single hint of genuine empathy in that solemn set of eyes.

“Sorry,” he whispered, scratching the back of his head, as if that would erase the memory of wrongdoing from his mind, “slip of tongue.” But Bubba lacked even the slightest of sympathetic glances, and his face was holding all the harsh grudges that his typically silver tongue never could.

“What was the _one_ thing I specifically told you not to do?”

Marshall rolled his eyes. “”One thing? You gave me a whole damn list. But sure, let’s play naïve here.”

_Besides, it’s not like I’m the only one here who’s borrowed the phrase._

‘Your over exaggeration is far from appreciated.”

Marshall groaned, reaching for his crumpled up jeans that lie discarded on the right side of the bed, and retrieving a sheet of paper from the left pants pocket. It crinkled in his touch, like balled up cellophane on contact, like a wadded up candy wrapper or disposed aluminum foil.

“Number 1: No questions, #2 No “going public”, 3. No “first move” touching without specific permission, 4. No hugs, 5. No obvious affection, 6. No pet names…. Did the other boys have to follow all this shit too? ‘Cause maybe it’s just me, but I’m getting very much tired of it all already…”

Bubba froze, eyes wide. “What did you say about other boys?”

Either he didn’t hear or just pretended not to; because Marshall’s eyes continued to deliberately skim the wrinkled paper and his mouth never formed a verbal response to that particular question. Marshall furrowed his brows, looking very discontent. Perhaps it would have been easier to reread his personal handwriting if not for the lack of organization or even a minuscule bit of neatness. “Let’s see… where’s that pesky number seven…”

Bubba’s heart was locked in place; the anger he felt led him to grow stiff to the extent where he forgot breathing was necessary. He already had enough things to be upset about without the little randomized and interrogation, and one of those “things” was likely roaming around the halls as they spoke, the other probably off committing some sort of dangerous felony. “What did you say about other boys?!”

Marshall finally responded to the specific question, slipping off of the mattress once more and dusting invisible specks of dirt and dignity off of his practically naked body. He smiled, crocodile style. “Glad you asked,” he retorted, waltzing directly towards Bubba’s dresser.

Bubba’s voice grew louder as his anxiousness did, _notthatnotthatdrawernotthatdraweranythingbutthatdrawer. There’s no way he knows. Right?_ “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, no longer even feigning security.

 Marshall yanked open one of the drawer sand watched it tumble out of its socket, hitting the ground with a loud, obnoxious “THUD”. Undergarments spilled out into the open, a multitude of colors shapes and sizes all strewn about the same bedroom floor like confetti at some very disappointed little boy’s birthday party. Bubba’s heart sunk deep into his stomach like a meteor burying itself into the ground. Fast, hard, merciless. Not to mention it was very possible he was going to end up coiled over and puking.

 Marshall pointed to Exhibit A, his very first clue or unearthing that really disclosed much of anything at all. (The “I love you” was still up for debate). “Those other boys. And yeah, you can thank your little “friend” for my discovery.”

 Bubba winced.

  _Angel._

 After the stunt he had pulled, he should have seen it all coming.

 "I mean hell, there’s even that guy from my mom’s hospital, which surprises even me, you’d think one has to draw a line eventually but…”

 By this point the candy prince legitimately felt like he was going to cry, which wasn’t something that happened so often anymore.

 Or maybe scream. Or perhaps even a combination of the two, with a dash of vomiting sprinkled on top. A Scream Sundae. Everything was falling to pieces within the course of only several days and it was too much for even him to handle.

 “Those are mine, so I don’t know what the hell you’re implying!”

 Marshall Lee didn’t even bother to grace the desperate lie with a second thought, as even he wasn’t so gullible as to see that kind of a look on someone’s face and disassociate the guilt that would have to be involved.

 “Moving on to number 7… No “I love you’s” or anything similar, 8 is no spending the night and nine…damn do you even like sex?”

 “Wha-at do you mean?”

 Marshall stepped into his old denim jeans one leg at a time, yanking them upwards in strict denial of gravity’s personal preference. He had already put his shirt on while reading, but Bubba hadn’t noticed at the time. The paper found its way back into his pocket, tucked away securely beneath a thin layer of cloth. Lee sighed,

 “I’m pretty sure you know what I mean, is this a thing you do because you like it, or is it just another mandatory chore to you? Do you feel… obligated to do this kinda shit?

 “…”

 He was fully clothed now. Pants. Belt Shirt. Socks. Shoes. It was like nothing had ever happened.

Bubba wished nothing had ever happened.

But to what extent he wasn’t sure.

 “Or don’t answer me, that’s cool too. Look, if you don’t want to talk, I should probably be leaving. The house chores kinda pile up when your mom is dead.”

 “…”

 “It’s a joke. You can laugh.”

 Lee was now standing at the doorway with a surprisingly nonchalant expression sewn across his face. Despite this his legs still twitched for the moment he stood in place, like he was unsure of himself. As he exited the bedroom door, Bubba followed after him tentatively, in a “proceed with caution” sort of manner. Like he wasn’t really sure he should “follow through” with this at all.

 Or maybe, he just couldn’t believe he was even considering it.

 “Marshall wai-“ Marshall cut him off with a gentle kiss. Well, gentle as in freezing waterfall. Gentle as in bleeding out slowly on the hot pavement. Gentle like a handful of candies melting within one’s mouth but said person not being permitted to bite or chew them, just to remain at a standstill as they melt and the flavor leaks ever so slowly down their throat.

 “Call me or whatever, alright?”

 Bubba was not very happy with anyone at the moment. But he knew he was most unhappy with himself, and would be even unhappier if he were left alone. Usually that didn’t stop him, but maybe today he would make an exception. After all, you have to start somewhere. His phone buzzed from its home in his pocket. He didn’t even bother checking, the caller’s identity was blatantly obvious regardless.

 “If you stay I’ll tell you the truth!”

_Smooth. That’s how you get a guy. Begging and desperation. Why don’t you just pay him while you’re at it._

 The real question then was what “truth” he would be telling, and Bubba wasn’t going to wait around for anymore follow up’s or specific requests.

 “About everything. Promise.”

 Marshall smiled. Probably not crocodile this time.

 “Well damn. I would have stayed no matter what if you had just asked nicely, but now that you’ve peaked my interest I’ll actually be expecting shit from you. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

_If you say no, you don’t have to tell him shit. It’s too much work to keep lying, and it stresses you out. Stress makes you age faster, you know. And you can’t dress young and look old; it’s a horrid combination that leads to utter humiliation and loss of all self-respect._

The balance between yes and no and the events that can occur because of either highlight the importance of making your own choice, and standing up for yourself in regards to decision making. It is important to always say no if no is what you mean, sometimes even to the extent of someone holding a knife against your throat. (An event Bubba could personally relate to.) At the same time, it also important to be willing to do the opposite, if that’s what is necessary for your own benefit.

 “I don’t make statements for the sake of my own health, so I suggest you make your choice of whether or not you’re leaving quickly, because I’m not bound to repeat myself, especially after I’ve already emphasized my “desperation” in the matter.”

 Marshall rolled his eyes, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The drawer remained spilt over in the center of the room, as no one had yet moved to re-gather its contents.

 “So you’re sure? I know being honest is kind of a…difficult task for you.”

 Bubba smothered his urge to cruelly glare and just simply nodded instead. Mutely so. He wasn’t sure that he trusted himself to speak again yet.


	37. Eggs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this had already posted? Oh well.

Eyes. Each egg formed a beady eye, glaring back at him as if to say, “Go ahead, I dare you”. But Angel wasn’t about to be so easily persuaded. His fork poked and prodded at the little sausages as if he were some sort of mad scientist, careful exploring unknown and potentially hazardous terrain. He drank all his orange juice in one gulp, leaving the rest of his breakfast untouched. Angel had absolutely nothing against orange juice. One glass of orange juice was about half the calories of an egg, and the liquid seemed to slide right off his body anyways, no fat gained in the slightest. Most liquids worked that way, at least in Angel’s experience. Soda was one of the few drinks he truly had to avoid.

“Angeline, aren’t you going to eat?”

Angel looked up from his now-cold platter, eyes meeting those of the portly woman standing before him. Her dark brown eyes mirrored his, her broad hips exposing their genetic relation. The shape and form of her body told of how Angel’s used to be, she was a walking reminder of everything physical about himself that Angel detested.

“Your father and I are very concerned you know, you don’t seem to be putting on much of anything. We can’t have our daughter wasting away to bone; especially not when she’s the only girl God blessed us with. Four sons is more than enough, if you ask me.” Angel’s mother laughed, but her eyes did not follow. There was more she wanted to say, this could be detected by the frowns in the wrinkles across her forehead, in the way her hands fluttered mechanically like frazzled baby birds, just barely flapping enough to keep from plummeting into solid ground. There was more Angel’s mother wanted to say, so, so much more. She didn’t. 

Angel rolled his eyes obnoxiously, but began to eat anyways. Oddly enough, eating was more unpleasant to him than the task he would have to perform afterwards. He always struggled to get even a single bite of food down his throat, and when he could manage enough bites of what to him tasted like cardboard and woodchips and nails to make his mother feel satisfied, the food weighed down heavily in his typically empty stomach, making him feel even more sickly than usual. Everything about eating reminded him of why he didn’t like to eat; it was as if just after one meal he could feel a very dramatic difference in size and shape.

Delusional? Possibly. But it was what it was. 

The lumps of food hesitantly meandered down the cavern of Angel’s throat, stopping suddenly every once in a while to see if they could cause him to gag to the point that his eyes went red and his head felt like a spinning top trapped in eternal rotation. No such luck. Angel managed to clear his plate without any extreme injury, and was out the front door before the final swallow. Even after the grand finale, he could still taste the grease on the tip of his tongue and sliding among his intestines. His mother called after him as he marched towards the front door, saying something about returning home in time for dinner. If Angel had heard her, he might have even laughed. As if one meal a day wasn’t hellish enough. 

In front of Angel’s house there lie two large bushes, one on either side of the front door and the front steps leading up to it. Angel placed his scrawny rear on the top step, gasping persistently in desperate attempt to catch his breath. In the midst of one of his outwards breaths, his stomach emptied itself over the right side of the cement set of stairs, over his soiled tennis shoes that hovered over the ledge; it hit the ground and splattered. Just looking at the mess made Angel want to puke once more. 

“Shit!”

Usually, Angel could at the very least slightly control the vomiting process. He could stomach his food until he found a more dignified place to lose it, like a gas station restroom, or a fast food joint lavatory. This lack of any form of control indicated that something was very wrong, more so than usual. But the boy was hardly in the mood to stick around contemplating on exactly what it was. 

* * *

 

Angel dug into his waistband in search of his spare key, one of the few things he never left home without. Once he had used it to enter the vast home, he slid it back into its previous spot, letting the cold metal sting his brown skin like prickly rainwater. 

 

Flame was busy dusting the large coat hanger in the corner, and did not notice he had company until said company tapped him on the shoulder, making him jump sky-high.

“S-sorry, I didn’t see you come in,” the butler stuttered, readjusting his suit collar and tie so that they fell back into proper placement, “Are you here to see Bubba?”

“No, I came here to see you. I’ve been madly in love with you since the day we first met. And I just thought that you should hear of it from me personally.”

The freckled face grew red. He continued dusting, only more vigorously this time. “I’m not really sure what to say to that…”

Angel raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well shit, “ he exclaimed, “don’t tell me you think I’m being serious.”

“…You aren’t?” 

“With a brain like that, I’ll never understand why you haven’t been fired yet,” Angel retorted, making his way towards the nearby flight of stairs. 

The nerve-ridden servant laid his duster down at last, following the teen across the room. He then crossed his arms defiantly.

“With an attitude like that, I’ll never understand why you haven’t been punched in the throat yet.” 

Angel just laughed, whirling round to face the other boy with a creepily ecstatic look in his eyes.

“By all means kid, throw your best punch and you could be the first.” His dark chocolate eyes taunted him, daring Flame to so much as take the first swing. But violence wasn’t exactly Flame’s cup of tea, not since his father. 

Flame turned away, quickly allowing more space between their two faces.

“Gumm has something for you, I-I’ll go get that alright?”

Angel shrugged, his scrawny skeleton torso jumping up and down as he did so. _What’s his problem?_

When Flame returned with a small purple gift bag, Angel knew what was in it without even looking. He snatched at it anyways, trifling through the layers of tissue paper until the item of interest became fully visible. 

“If he thinks I’m going to put that shit on, he’s got something else coming to him." 

Flame sighed. “You know he’s just trying to help you, right? Better a bra than broken lungs.”

_Well then. Dumb boy, smart mouth._

Angel just shook his head. “I’m getting to the point where I hardly need either anyways. I mean, does this bod say “bra” to you?” He gestured quickly to himself, but immediately regretted it as he felt the other set of eyes hover up and down his full form.

Flame finally settled his eyes back on the other boy’s face, resting them there for the time being.

_That “bod” says hospital._

The redhead merely shrugged, trying to ease into some sort of successful persuasion. “Personally, I don’t think there’s any shame in wearing a bra, even if you are a boy. And it’s a sports bra, so it isn’t as if anyone could tell…”

Angel flung the bag back violently in his direction, trotting up the stairs ever so loudly.

“Great! Then you wear it.” 

Flame hurried after him, toting the little bag once more. “He’s really busy right now Angel, I don’t think we should disturb-“

Too late. Angel had arrived in the bedroom hallway just in time to see exactly what he was not in the mood for. Flame’s heart sunk faster then an anchor strapped to barbells. Angel didn’t allow himself the time to feel heartbroken, or betrayed or anything of the sort. He simply kept his skinny little body moving fast past, only know he had changed direction.

But the two bodies lovingly embracing each other were to remain etched in this mind. It was one thing to hear about him kissing other boys, but another thing entirely to witness it for himself.

Out of the hall, down the stairs, right up to the front door. His stomach was still feeling insanely off from earlier that morning, but he was trying not to dread on that either.

This was his punishment for trying to apologize.

On the other hand, Flame was hardly keeping pace at all.

“Told you he was busy,” he said at last, though he didn’t exactly sound proud of his miniature victory.

Angel stopped at the door. Wasting time of course, but hopefully not enough that it would affect him in the long run. He had to attempt to catch his breath, which was getting harder and harder these days.

He slowly turned the handle; still somewhat trying to hold onto whatever ounce of capability that his lungs may have left.

After seeing for himself what the bandages were doing to him, Flame’s mind instantly snapped out of “all hope is lost”, and once more dove into “overly concerned mother”. His own sadness could wait.

“Wait! Don’t forget your bag!”

Every single day Angel came over he was offered The Bag. And every single day he declined. Never politely. Occasionally he provided an excuse, but his general response always boiled down to “fuck no”. Still, the prince continued to let him know that The Bag was an option, as if he was certain that one day his friend would just break down and accept the gift, and all would be just as it used to be. As if taking the bag was a mandatory catalyst for all the health and happiness one single being could obtain. And maybe it was. But Angel was never going to say yes, not in a million years, not if Hell froze over and earthworms became the dominant race. And deep, deep down, Bubba probably knew that.

But his butler didn’t.

“Oh that ‘ol thing? I’d rather fuck a cactus.”

“If Gumm thinks it’s important, then I’m not letting you leave without it.”

Angel narrowed his eyes, his itty-bitty fists remained at his sides but they were clenched so tight one might assume his veins were alive, that they were rebelling against his body and would soon pop out of his body and shatter the skin overlapping them.

“You’re still loyal to him? Even after seeing the shit that goes on behind your back? He was literally making out with another guy, and a guy that he barely knows at all. He doesn’t love you, he doesn’t need you. So essentially you mean nothing to him. That sort of unconditional devotion…it’s not worth it, trust me.”

Flame scratched his head.

“Are you reassuring me, or yourself?”

Now Angel was the red-faced one.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, servant boy. I don’t like him like that, he’s just my friend.”

“Come on, even I’m not stupid enough to believe that. I have eyes.”

Angel was done responding. He hadn’t yet thought of an insulting enough retaliation.

“Look, I don’t really care either way, but you’re going to take this bag with you even if I have to escort you to your household myself and put it on for you.”

 Angel leaned forward, unintentionally breathing egg and vomit all over Flame, not that the scent was a surprise to either of them.

 “Then that’s exactly what you’re going to have to do, _servant boy_.”

Angel then grabbed the small bag from betwixt the other teen’s grip and flung it far across the entry hallway, laughing as the young butler scrambled clumsily after it, tripping on his own shoelaces.

 “That wasn’t very nice!”

 Angel just laughed some more, a rare occurrence for him. It hurt his stomach like fists pounding against his gut and literal cannon fire, but sometimes the pain worth it.

 He finally opened the front door.

 “Try and keep up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all my gay children. I'm such a proud Father.


	38. Questions

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Bubba raised his arms upward, stretching the muscles that hid underneath several layers of baby soft skin, the kind they rave about in Aveeno commercials.

“This isn’t the kind of thing that it’s really easy to bring up. Do you first introduce yourself to strangers by mentioning your deceased alcoholic mother and your attachment issuses that lead you to make yourself so emotionally vulnerable (and shockingly obedient) towards anyone who so much as sleeps with you?”

Marshall coughed; choking on his Cheerwine and struggling no to snort it back out.

“Not just anyone.” He corrected, wiping at the corners of his lips in case of any escaped liquid.

Bubba batted his shockingly long lashes in return, allowing the slightest of smiles to meander across his face like a river careening down a deepened path.

“Oh, so I’m special, am I?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Very well.” Bubba uncrossed his legs. Recrossed them. Uncrossed again. He gestured for the other boy to sit on his lap, but Marshall lit up like a Christmas tree and vigorously shook his head in protest.

“Fine. I figured you’d be more than happy with any gracious excuse to sit on me, but suit yourself. You have something else you’d like to ask me then?”

“Look, I’m really, really sorry,” Marshall said, “about your dad.” Bubba leaned forward, purposefully allowing his hand to linger against Marshall’s as he reached for the half-emptied can of Cheerwine. He downed the sugary sweet remains in a single swallow, and then returned it from whence it came. 

“Questions and lap-sitting, Lee. Those are your two options as of now.” 

“Did all the other guys get only two options?” 

_Ouch._

Their verbal interaction went from sympathy to distrust in mere seconds. This was why Bubba wasn’t so keen on lengthy conversations.

Bubba squinted his eyes, as if staring into something brighter than the sun itself.

“God. You really don’t get it, do you? You’re _different_.”

_Different._ Marshall wasn’t sure exactly what the word contextually meant, or whether he should be flattered or terrified. Possibly both.

Marshall finally surrendered to Bubba’s second offer and plopped himself down on the other boy’s lap, straddling both of his legs so that the two could remain facing each other even in such a form of contact. This was potentially a very physically betraying moment of exposure, as Marshall was already breathing much more rapidly and his heartbeat began to quicken and Bubba could now feel the coarse vibrations of the rising and falling of his chest, like a melodic lullaby that only he was permitted to experience. He sort of enjoyed that type of a notion. Sort of.

“Different how? 

Bubba sighed. He hadn’t realized that voluntary honesty meant hours worth of annoying ass interrogation. He toyed with the other boy’s hair, avoiding his eyes as much as possible. Telling the truth in such an intimate manner gave him a queasy sort of feeling in the stomach.

“God damn it Lee, do you want a cookie or something? I already told you I loved you. Hell, I begged you to stay here did I not?”

Pen drop. 

“You also said that you were afraid of me.”

Bubba hummed softly, a tune Marshall could almost recognize, but not filly make out under layers of other thoughts and sounds and emotions. His breaths remained slow and even, as if he couldn’t be touched by anything or anyone. His breaths were liars. Bubba slid his hands out of his companion’s raven-toned hair, down the canvas of his back until they found his neatly carved hips. 

“Not like it was a lie.”

“You think I’d hurt you?”

Bubba was still humming, but he did pause his mumblings to give the question a bit of thought, just for the courtesy of it all. “Almost did.” 

Marshall sighed. “I mean, more like your dad did. That kind of hurt.”

Bubba wasn’t sure of the right answer to that particular question, but he knew it wouldn’t align with the truthful answer anyways so he deemed it his best option not to say anything at all.

It was a miracle his butler hadn’t burst in on them yet, Bubba felt sure that it was bound to happen eventually if they continued to “hang out”. His aunt, on the other hand, at least knew better than to barge in uninvited when Bubba had boys over. Unless that boy was Angel, but even then she avoided unannounced entrance out of a mutual and unspoken respect for her nephew.

Marshall quickly grew quite annoyed by the sudden silence. “Are you going to answer me, or not?” Bubba’s hands remained lingering amongst the lower portion of Marshall’s body, yet somehow they had now found their way into his waistband. And lower.

Marshall narrowed his eyes, Despite his rosy cheeks splattering red across creamy brown skin, and the way his body seemed to react positively and fall neatly into place of the transaction like the final portion of a jigsaw puzzle, Lee began quickly prying the ice-cold hands off of his body.

Bubba groaned, “You’re killing me here,”

Before that day Marshall might have caved in at that point. But this was not before. He glared right back, eyes ablaze with everything that words cannot express. His furrowed brows dug downward like miners busy at work, trying to make a living that they could utilize to support their families.

“Likewise,” he replied, voice as bitter as straight black coffee.

“Ooo, that’s like a three-point vocab word for you, isn’t I t?”

“You’re trying to distract me,” accused Lee.

“Am I?” 

“Are you?”

Bubba just shrugged. “Maybe a little bit.”

Marshall closed his eyes, breathing inward slowly. Then out. Steadying his system of respiration, trying to get in sync with his company. “Why do you do that? Push me away from any legitimate bonding or confrontation with all your tricks and excuses but not ever let me truly leave?”

Bubba reached into his pocket, quickly retreating when he realized he reached into the wrong one, and checked again, in his left this time. “Gum?”

Marshall shook his head. Their faces were both so close together in proximity that in doing so several locks of his inky black hair brushed up against Bubba’s face and tickled his smooth skin on contact.

“You answer my question first, then maybe I’ll consider it.” As if Bubba cared either way.

Bubba finally looked him in the eyes, blowing a bubble at him with the sugar free gum from his pocket that smelled ever so distinctly of watermelon. He then returned to chewing. Slow, rhythmic, steady as the start of the tide. 

“Guess.”

“You don’t want to be alone?”

Bubba laughed, snorting a little. It was odd to hear something so vulnerable and realistically human coming from someone who painted themselves to be a god. It was alluring yet…comfortable. Marshall could feel his own body rise up a little as it was swept away with the vibrating motion, only to quickly return to its original position.

“In contrary, I quite enjoy my alone time. Guess again. I’m afraid it’s a bit more specific than that.”

Marshall slapped at his thighs in exasperation.

“You promised you’d just tell me this stuff!”

Bubba blew another bubble, so very close to Marshall’s face that if he were to so much as twitch even slightly, the gummy goop would be sure to transfer over. The watermelon scent both teased and irritated his nostrils, burning his senses like a newly lit match. Satisfied by the effect, Bubba withdrew his creation once more, and returned to simply chewing.

“Did I?”

Marshall through his hands up in the air in surrender, officially done with making an effort. Clearly this was getting him nowhere, it was just another limitless mind game meant to give him a way to busy himself, but keep him right where he had been all along. Square 1.

“You’re doing it again. I’m leaving.”

“I don’t want to lose you. Is that what you want to hear?”

“…What?”

“I don’t want to lose you specifically, but I don’t want you to end up like him.”

“Think I will?”

When there was no answer Marshall immediately outstretched his arms. At first Bubba wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to expect, and he automatically tensed up and wrapped his own arms around his torso instinctively in order to defend his vital organs, only to find himself surrounded by warmth before he could cry out any sort of a protest.

_Oh. He’s…hugging me?_

Bubba wasn’t used to this sort of an embrace, he wasn’t exactly sure what sort of retaliation was socially acceptable or what retaliation he was even comfortable with making and so he simply sat there, alone in his room with a young man perched on his lap hugging him like they were the only guys on earth. And maybe Bubba wouldn’t have minded if they were.

“I’m sorry,” Marshall whispered, still holding him tightly and Bubba was starting to feel it in his bones like a good soulful song.

But of course all good things must come to an end, and soon this philosophy was proven by the slamming open of the bedroom door, allowing unwanted light to flood the picture perfect bedroom.

_God I need to teach him to knock_ , Bubba thought, but his thoughts were interrupted by actual words and those words by legitimate actions.

“Guys,” a very out of breath Flame began, gently raising the unmoving body he cradled so cautiously in his arms as if to prove his very point, “I think there’s something wrong with Angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> having internet problems so it looks like I'mma be even more infrequent. my apologies  
> -writer


	39. Admission

"Jesus Christ, any closer and you'd literally be _in_ me!"

Flame gasped at the suddenness of the sound, stumbling backwards and practically sending a whole miniature desk as well as all of its pale white contents flying skywards. "I-I didn't realize you were awake..."

Angel was far from amused by the clumsy act."And I didn't realize I was cooped up in some mad scientist's laboratory with 1/3 of the Stooge party. But here we are. And speaking of we, where exactly is your manager? Don't tell me he stuck me with babysitting duty."

Try the other way around. Flame struggled back to his feet, rearranging the shaken up sheets of paper until they were all neatly and precisely compiled underneath each other once more, fitting neatly together like stacked lego bricks.

"Babysitting? I'm like the same age as you...and I'm sure you'd get a lot further in life if you just tried being nice to people every now and then, instead of acting up like this. I kind of saved your life, Angel."

Angel retorted by sarcastically batting his lashes, which were extremely long and thick, all things considering.

"My hero," he cooed, "but did you ever consider that maybe I didn't want saving?"

"Considered it. Just didn't care."

Angel shivered. Not having his bandages made him feel even more naked and vulnerable than the very hospital gown itself, and he really wasn't too gung-ho about being seen in a state so pathetic as this. He folded his arms over his chest, but in doing so brought the thin fabric closer to him. This confliction as to which position truly cloaked his curved breasts stressed him out to an unbearable degree.

Flame quickly took note of the awkward struggling, and immediately looked away so he was facing the opposite direction, no longer meeting the eyes or even glancing in the general area of the room that harbored the very cranky hospital patient.

"Now I can't see you at all, does that help?"

Rather than intentionally reveal such vulnerability, Angel took a shot at playing dumb.

"Help what, you weirdo?" But despite this faux confusion, Flame could still hear the betraying sound of relief in the tint of the other boy's voice.

Now that he felt safe in doing so, Angel unfolded his arms.

"So where is Bubba anyways? No no, let me guess: off tonguing a particular raven-haired homo?"

"Far from it."

"Then where- "

"He made me promise not tell you." Flame stared at the bathroom door with an earnest and sincere look in his eyes, treating it as a genuine substitute for the person he was speaking with. It was an odd sight indeed, but there wasn't really anyone around to be seeing it.

"Mind you, this is the same He that technically cheated on you. You've got no good reason to keep secrets for him."

"…Well, we weren't exactly _dating_..."

"Look, if you tell me I'll start wearing the damn bra!"

It was a lie of course, but the butler didn't exactly know that, and was the kind that would eagerly accept something as truth simply because it was the kind of truth he wanted to hear. At the same time, spilling unauthorized secrets left a funny taste on the tip of his tongue.

"...He went to get your parents, they wouldn't answer the phone."

Angel froze, still as a headless manikin poised directly in front of a shop window. Flame's keen sense of hearing was more than enough to alert him that the boy now sat unmoving.

"Angel, if you're thinking what I think you're thinking..."

"They can't know I'm here, you need to get me out and you need to do it now."

"You aren't well enough to go anywhere in this kind of a state."

"But they can't see me like this!" Angel flung his hands up. His eyes burned a little and he felt fairly certain as to why, but decided to ignore the knowledge. He lifted his body off of the bed only to come crashing down, colliding with the cold tile floor.

Or at least, he would have, if Flame had not immediately been alerted by the rustling of cloth, and charged to his rescue. The thin body felt cold and weightless in his strong hands, like the owner was already diseased. The typically darkly pigmented skin layering the skinny structure had grown pale and weary, sunken in like melted butter.

Angel felt more humiliated than he did frightened. The general shame of being too weak to even properly hurt so much more than the legitimate aching of his rigid bones.

Unlike his company, Flame did actually look genuinely terrified. He'd had plenty of his own encounters with death before, and knew better than to take it lightly. His white face had gone whiter; he hadn't slept since Angel's hospital admission.

"Better they see you here than dead in the streets, eh?"

Angel just shut his eyes, tight. He pretended he was already long gone. That would be better than seeing his parents, than living like this.

The conversation was very much over.


	40. With

"Run away with me," he whisper-pleaded, kissing along Marshall's jawline with the finesse of an experienced professional. The two had parked the quaint car in a vacant lot (which had been surprisingly easy to find, given the fact they were out travelling in the overpopulated city) and transitioned their interaction to the ever so welcoming backseat, where Bubba had eased himself into straddling position atop Marshall's lap, sliding smoothly into place like the final piece of a puzzle, like he naturally belonged there. And maybe he did.

Marshall smirked, intently focused on the rustling sounds of their bodies collided against one another and the chirp of the birds distanced from them, past any human's natural grasp. He detected a hint of cologne along the Bubba's shirt collar, somewhat flowery but just subtle enough that the scent could have easily gone unnoticed. Despite his general flamboyancy there was a large portion of femininity which Bubba kept tucked just under the surface, virtually inaccessible to those who would humiliate him for his homosexuality.

"Very funny."

Bubba cleared his throat.

"I don't think you quite understand. I'm being completely serious."

Marshall abruptly shook his head; something that there was hardly any proper space for given their current positioning, but due to impulse it happened just the same. His house keys jangled in his pocket, cold metal against denim against flesh.

"C'mon Bubbs. You've got to know we can't just run away..."

His entourage immediately entered defensive mode.

"And why can't we? Would you not go with me anywhere I asked whenever I asked it? Be it just out of town, or to the ends of the earth?"

Damn.

Lee focused his gaze outward, through the tinted window and somehow beyond it. It was quite the bold and shameless declaration, but Bubba didn't exactly leave room for rebuttal within the statement. And when did he ever?

"Of course I probably might consider it,"

Marshall paused,

"if it was _really_ what you wanted."

The rustling had ceased a fairly considerable amount, but the bird chirps remained partially present, despite constantly being muffled by the barrier of the thick window glass. Marshall tried to wait in perfect silence for an answer to be given, but his own heavy breaths kept interrupting the concept.

"Well it is what I want," Bubba retorted,

"And it's not as if you've got any good reason to stay around here anyways. No friends at school, no good marks, no parents..."

Despite attempting to fully disguise his reaction, Marshall visibly stiffened at the last comment. He had his limits.

Bubba winced apologetically.

"Sorry."

The other teen sighed in response, breathing in the stale car air. There were remnants of stagnant air freshener in the atmosphere, probably meant to expel the stereotypical "car" smell, or at the very least mask it.

"No. You're right. But that doesn't change the fact that if we were to just up and leave, at the very least you'd come to regret it."

"What makes you think that?"

"Isn't it obvious? You'd miss Angel. You'd worry about him constantly, especially considering now is when he needs you most. Bubs, it's been a week and you haven't even visited him yet."

Bubba just smiled, playing with the darkened strands of hair atop Lee's head. He was listening, but not really.

"You overestimate my ability to harness compassion, Marshall."

Marshall Lee closed his eyes, just taking in the feeling of the hand in his hair and the hand massaging his back, just taking in the smell of the car and the melody of the birds, taking in whatever he could absorb into his memory and retrace his mind back to later when he needed it most.

"In contrary, I think you underestimate it."

Bubba kissed the other boy, pinning his back up against the rear car seat. Always with the pinning.

"Mm, my Angel will be just fine without me, he's a big boy."

Marshall didn't object the movements, but he also certainly wasn't physically reciprocating, and that much was quite obvious.

_Does he even hear himself when he speaks?_

"Or-he won't. He's not looking so good as of late, what with tubes sticking out his nostrils and up his ass."

Bubba chose to ignore that specific reply, but Marshall noticed he was no longer smiling, not even trying to.

"C'mon Bubbs, he's your best friend! I personally don't even like the kid, and even I know you can't just leave him stranded and abandoned in a hospital room."

No response was given to that specific statement. Marshall wasn't sure whether or not pressing the issue further would do either of them any good.

"I'm skipping town, and you're coming with. It's nonnegotiable."

For a prolonged moment Marshall didn't reply. Even outside of the validity of Angel's predicament, would he really tag along with someone he'd only started seeing intimately just recently? Would he really leave behind everything he knew (regardless of the general dumpiness of this "everything") for someone who probably didn't even know his favorite color?

...Did Bubba know his favorite color?

"Hey, what's my favorite color?"

Bubba raised an eyebrow at him, slightly bewildered by the spontaneousness of such a question. His soft caramel eyes stared at the other's curiously, his mouth curled into an innocent, unknowing pout. Up until that point, Marshall had always assumed he was a blue eye kind of guy.

Apparently he had been wrong.

"Excuse me?"

Marshall narrowed his eyes.

"That's what I thought, you don't even know my favorite color. And I probably wouldn't know yours either, if you didn't plaster it all over your body at all times. We hardly know each other at all, and that needs to change if you're planning that we fucking elope or some gay shit like that. We need to spend time together, and not just doing…these things."

"You have some sort of problem with these things?"

Marshall sighed. He struggled breathe, counted to ten and closed his eyes. Sometimes he found it easier to see things when he couldn't see anything at all.

"You know what I mean."

"I'm not so sure that I do. Are you...aggressively asking me out?"

Marshall's chest rose and fell as his breathing readily quickened, and the other teen could quite obviously feel the rapid heartbeat resting humbly just beneath his smooth palm, a sensitive stone just pulsing underneath its exterior surface, unable to break free.

"What if I am?"

For a moment only the birds continued to speak audibly.

"We can talk about this after you gather your things, but until that point it's not worth your mentioning. I'm sure you understand why."

Marshall just sulked, slumping his bony shoulders forward so he was almost falling on top of the boy perched above him. He tried to reign in his breathing. This was quite obviously a rather common problem for him. His dark hair flopped forward onto his face, to the point where he couldn't perceive anything but black. (He really needed a haircut.) He wasn't sure whether he was more exhausted or agitated, but his body, apart from his lungs, more properly expressed the former.

"You will be coming with me, correct?"

This was the first time Lee had been asked as opposed to directed.

"I thought it was _nonnegotiabl_ e," he quipped.

Bubba rolled his eyes.

"Was. I mean, but there's got to be something I could do to _persuade_ you..."

The prince kissed along the slope of the other teen's neck, downward past his shirt collar, stomach, and belt buckle.

Marshall squirmed at the sound of his pants zipper, but his facial expression remained harsh and firm, despite the vibrant color in his cheeks. "There you go again, always bringing it back to stuff like this. This is exactly what I'm talking about. This is the problem. It really is all you know, is-"

Marshall gasped.

His legs were propped up against the back of the passenger seat, making access that much easier. However, due to the fact that they were trembling so, Bubba had to use both of his hands on either side to hold them in place amidst the transaction. It was a pure balancing act on both accounts, as backs of car seats are so clearly unequipped for such proceedings.

"Wh-What was that?"

Bubba looked up.

"Hm?"

"I swear I heard something...like a phone."

"No, I'm quite certain that you definitely heard nothing of the sort. Just your mind playing tricks."

The phone buzzed a second time. By now there would be no way of convincing Marshall that he had fabricated such a noise.

If not for all this sudden buzzing Bubba would have sworn that he had turned the device on silent before they had gotten in the car. But then again, it seemed with each passing day he grew more careless. More teen-like, if you will.

"Give it to me."

"I'm trying."

Marshall blushed. Always with the blushing. Everything with him was wedding night, and to feel that passionate over the bare concept of romance or sexuality was a feeling foreign to Bubba. He on the other hand, was lucky to get butterflies.

"Not _that_ , you moron! The phone."

"What phone?" Bubba pressed, ignoring the glares that the question received him. As if a mind so enamored in the English language could never manage to wrap itself around whatever Marshall was going on about.

"Oh, so I'm just making this up am I? I'm going fucking crazy?"

Bubba blinked innocently, face full of perfunctory confusion.

"Making _what_ up?"

Marshall was looking down on him as if he had tasted of something rank and sour. Even his ears seemed to drop southbound, mimicking that of a lost pup's expression.

"My bad for thinking you were genuinely done hiding things."

"From what I recall I really only promised I'd stop lying, and there is a difference."

Marshall zipped his pants back up, anxiously fumbling with his broken belt. He really needed to buy a new one, but what with gas prices and dead parents, it was hard for a teenage boy to remain financially stable.

The hole he was aiming for was torn so thoroughly that he eventually gave up and settled for poking a new one, grateful to Bubba for not mentioning his obvious poverty and making things far more awkward than they already were.

"Either way you're breaking your promise right now, so..."

"It's nothing you should concern yourself about, really," Bubba pleaded.

"Then why work so hard at hiding it?"

"Because it's none of your business, that's why!"

"Whatever, it's fine," he lied. Crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Forget I said anything."

Bubba groaned. "Cut me some slack why don't you? Life's hard enough without your constant pestering and dramatics."

"I said whatever. I just think it's totally obnoxious and dumb to hide things from me seeing as though you know everything there is to know about me, but it's fine. You do you sweetie. Not my business."

"Marshall."

"I mean, it's probably just one of your millions upon millions of butt-buddies looking for a hook up, and it's not like I want to be reminded of that anyways."

"Marshall."

"And it's not as if you have some obligation to hold up your end of the one single measly promise you made me, even if I kept all of mine and I've told you I love you like five and a half times by now and I wrote you those- "

"-MARSHALL!"

He jumped, almost kneeing his present company in the face.

"Yea?"

"I'll give you my damn phone, if you'll shut up for a second. I can't hear myself think. And watch the knees, you only get one head per lifetime and I've grown somewhat fond of mine."

"Really?"

Marshall tried not to look too excited over having won something for the second time in his life. He failed.

"And you have to promise not to freak out, okay?" Bubba was fearful of another panic attack, something he was completely incapable of handling. Physical wounds were one thing, but he was still figuring out his own junk mentally and emotionally. Bubba handed Marshall the phone, not bothering to avoid making that extra bit of skin-on-skin contact. And it was nice, not having to worry about that sort of a thing.

"Okay?" Bubs asked, for the second time. Still no answer.

Marshall picked up the phone. He turned it on. Looked at the screen.

"Oh my god."


	41. Held

"What can I do about it?" Bubba hesitated. Being that the question was preposterous, even from the lips of someone always speaking of preposterous things, he wasn't quite sure how to react to it. What could be done? And what made it anyone's responsibility outside of his own? He was pensive in his pondering, as it was particularly unusual for him to share his burdens, much less allow someone else's opinion or support on the subject matter.

"I told you not to freak out," he reminded, a teacher chiding their student for their behavioral incongruence. He was still on his knees, which made the statement all the more awkward and contrasting.

"And I'm not," Marshall protested, "Or at least I'm trying my best not to. But it's a wee bit difficult considering there's criminal on the loose and he has your number." Bubba knew that Marshall was right, and that by the feigned steadiness of his speaking pattern, that he was really trying to keep his cool for the both of them. Still. What was he supposed to do with this information? To what extent could he possibly solve this problem? Not to mention that in a way, he still blamed Marshall as much he did Ms. Mint for this particular predicament. How could he not? The only two people still prevalent enough in his life had to be some way responsible for his current state, otherwise all he would have to blame was himself.

Realizing that Bubba would not be replying to him anytime soon, Marshall tried again. "Come here," he said, "Come here and sit next to me." He was patting at the car seat next to him, like a child that only knew to demand solace in closeness.

"Since when are you the boss of me?" But Bubba got up off of the floor of the car and sat alongside him anyways, a tad bit closer than what was technically necessary. Despite his stressed and hell-bent stage, Marshall could tell that he was content to be in physical adjacency to someone again, even though it was in a way quite different from what he had originally intended. Perhaps that was for the best. They sat beside each other in mutual silence for what felt like hours, but was probably no more than a couple minutes.

This time Bubba spoke first. His hand was resting atop Marshall's, not that he had moved it there, but that it had simply "accidentally" found itself in such a position when he fell against the softness of the seat, and he couldn't be fucked to move it. "What should I do," he said, and for the first time he sounded like a scared little boy as opposed to the man pursuing him, as he repeated the question to provide further clarification, "What should I do?'" Marshall sighed a little, and given the tight spacing, it was quite likely that that breath would mingle itself in Bubba's own inhalation. That was intimate, in a way that going down or tangling bodies was not. Just breathing. Together. Like a decaying person, he had found his life support in the inhales and exhales of another.

"I asked first."

Bubba now laced his fingers into his. This was the first time Marshall truly noticed the smallness of his hands. And the softness. It was almost like cradling a newborn babe.

"You asked what you could do. That's a very different question, Marshall. And shameless at that. I mean, are you the kind of person who just offers himself up wholly to the first stranger he meets?" Marshall understood that to be a ridicule of his sexual eagerness as well, but he did not quite get the point of the remark. One minute Bubba was putting out and saying how much he loved him, and the next he was scolding all of Marshall's attempts to so much as bask in the glory of his presence. So Marshall ignored the question.

"I mean, that's why you want to run away, isn't it?"

"Your zipper's only half up."

"Bubba."

This time it was he who sighed. It was the same morning it had been just ten minutes ago, though it felt to be a very different hour, a very different year even. "Yes," he said, "yes, it is. You act as if you're going to help me, but you wouldn't even do a little thing like that." Marshall knew that Bubba knew that it was no "little thing", just as he knew the birds were still outside chirping, even when he couldn't hear them over his own heartbeat, over someone else's that was so near in proximity to him. He finally mustered the courage to look Bubba in the eye again, and he saw that he was crying.

Marshall didn't know too much about crying. He knew that when he cried (which was often), it always helped to put on some Amy Winehouse and think of the future, a future with his own kids and his own house from which he could see all the stars. But Marshall wasn't sure if Bubba would be keen on all that. So instead he squeezed the other's hand more tightly, like it was a promise they both new he couldn't keep.

"Come here," he said again, this time with furthered intent, "come here and let me hold you." Bubba blinked at the tears, far too frustrated and generally humiliated to be bothered with wiping them away. He thought he looked ugly look with them still, an ugly boy and his ugly tears. Worse than that, he felt he looked weak. He had only been weak once before in front of Marshall, and the time before that had been many years ago with a different sort of someone.

"You say that like it means something," he said, "Like you mean something. You're a fool to so much as look at the likes of me when I speak, much less offer consolation. You'll hurt me and I'll let you. And now he's back and god forbid you call attention to the irony of it being so soon after you became him! You are nothing to me. Why would I ever do as I say, or entertain you any longer or in a more ridiculous fashion then I already have?"

"Is that it?" Marshall asked, "Is it all out now?" Bubba then nodded wordlessly, letting another one of those alligator tears snake its way down his face. They made his face glitter and glow, a divinity even in sadness.

"Good." Marshall said. And then he pulled him in so tightly against his chest that his face was buried and those tears became his own, sticking to his jacket like that was where they were meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized I haven't put an update on here in literal years and I feel kind of treacherous for it... Spent all night replacing chapters with revisions so that if any of you are still reading this, you can be caught up. It's 12 and I'll be getting up at five tommorow, I just couldn't bring myself to halfass again after all this time, Still, a few random chapters don't have revisions yet!
> 
> If you're still around, thank you. You've made me smile. You've made me mean something. (I have like a crazy amount of comment screenshots from over the years, I swear.) Thank you for growing up with me. I am active on my lyingtoyourinstincts tumblr now too, if you need more access to hotlines, or a way to contact me.
> 
> I've got another gumlee on fanfic that I'll add here if you all want, and another that I just starting writing in my head today. Happy late new year! Sorry that it's all so late, but I'm working things out bit by bit.  
> ~Writer


	42. Urine

Angel woke up drenched in a cool sweat. He did not recall going to sleep in the first place, but random fainting spells were yet another cute side effect of severe malnourishment. Therefore, he was sweaty. And his back hurt. And he had to pee. 

Angel’s first attempt to stand up led to near immediate collapse. He swung himself backward on instinct, throwing his stick-thin body onto the shallow sheets and grimacing accordingly. His second attempt would have to be a lot slower, unless Angel intended to consequentially call in a janitor and have them sweep up all of his broken bones.

He focused himself on balance this time, very cautiously lifting himself back upward, one segment at a time. He sighed once standing, not sure whether he should feel accomplished or ashamed. He was sure that his movements were nothing short of ridiculous, which only further discouraged him from any additional maneuvering. Still. Angel had to piss. He had to piss like he’d never had to piss before, and he wasn’t down for any free UTI’s, even if they meant he’d make less of a fool of himself in the present.

And it was for this reason in which Angel took a step forward. His grippy sock helped to an extent, but he primarily relied on the will of the Lord to assist him in traversing across cold hospital flooring. Angel was about five sloth-like steps in when someone entered the room. Hesitant to take his eyes off of his feet for even a heartbeat, Angel pondered as to who it might be. Some sort of medical professional, or one of his thousands of adoring visitors? Angel smiled at his own joke. If he survived this whole peeing experience, he’d have to give himself a gentle pat in the back for that one.

“Do you need help?”

Angel winced. Not because he was in severe physical pain (though he was) but because he knew exactly who that voice belonged to. He was embarrassed to be seen getting on so pathetically, though he’d be even more embarrassed to admit to such an embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he snapped, stepping more quickly this time, just to prove that he could. Shame that it turned out he couldn’t. Before Angel could smack against the ground a second time however, he felt two strong and warm arms wrap around him, guarding him from any life-alert worthy incidents.

“I got you,” Flame said, not at all condescendingly, which only made Angel more frustrated with him. He didn’t always have to be so good and patient, did he? It only made Angel dimmer in comparison.

“Did I say you could feel me up?”

The comment at least threw his company relatively off guard, allowing Angel yet another attempt to acquaint himself with the floor. However, before face could meet floor for a second time, he was being coddled again. “Did your nurse say you could be walking around like this? If I let you go, you’ll fall again.” Angel was surprised by the wee lump of authoritativeness that the man surrounding him seemed to have picked up mid-conversation. On one hand, he was offended that anyone could think they’d get away with talking to him in this way. On the other, he was intrigued.

“I have to pee,” he managed, pink face buried in the other’s shoulder, so as not to further shame himself, “and if you don’t let me go, I’ll have to do it right here. Unless you’re into that? In which case, you have my permission to off me.”

Flame chuckled a little, though the following smile was not seen by the boy with a face full of shirt.

“Oh? You think major medical issues are a laughing matter?”

The chest he was pressed against stiffened slightly, signaling Flame’s inherent shyness. “It’s just that-you sound a lot like him.”

“What, you mean the twink who both cheated on you and refuses to visit me in my most desperate time of need? Am I supposed to be flattered?”

Flame was once more taken aback by the response, and his face merged so that he was the more embarrassed one. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I just- “

Angel shoved him away before he could complete his answer, but the “away” part didn’t work so well, what with the other’s firm grip around his waist. 

Angel landed on top, which at the very least, gave him the benefit of a softer landing. He quickly averted his eyes from whatever was beneath him, casting them off to the side in a way that was almost bashful. His flushed face deeply contrasted the anger in his eyes. “You planned this,” Angel accused, straightening his hospital gown so as not to flash the second party when he did eventually shoot his shot at the prospect of standing. Flame seemed equally off guard by their current situation. He was biting down on the lower part of his lip. He had one hand in his curly lump of hair, and that hand was twisting round and round. Hypothetically speaking, he could lift the other no problem. The more daunting question remained: Would he let him?

“What’s got you all worked up? Do I look to be in a riding mood?”

Flame bit down harder on his lip. “Holy moly, you’re vulgar today. Did your family visit?”

“Mind your business,” the patient snapped, squeezing both hands into meatless little fists, “and hold still while I try to get up.” Having little to no choice, Flame obliged. From the positioning the two were in, Angel had to push up on the other’s chest to force himself upward. From this point on he swung both legs over their matching side, further spreading his lower half. This reminded Flame of other times, where such a procedure had not been so unintentional. This only furthered his blushing, something that was immediately picked up on by his company.

“If you pop one right now, I’m calling the police.”

Pop what? Flame thought better than to ask.

“You’ll have to get off the floor first.”

Angel leaned his little back against Flame’s thighs, trying to stabilize himself before he straightened his own legs out for good measure. There were activities aside from this one that he would have rather engaged in, but there was worse company to be engaging with. He huffed a little, trying to realign his line of vision with the doorway across from him as opposed to the person lying in front of it. He was halfway to standing when he fell back down.

Flame didn’t snap at him, or even belittle his attempts. “You haven’t gone on your own since you got here, have you?” His head was cocked to the side. Angel felt like he was going to cry, which was totally lame and would only add to the helpless impression he was already projecting. “Shut up! You don’t always have to talk. No one wants to hear what you have to say.”

Now Flame looked like he was going to cry. Like he heard those kinds of words far too frequently for any sane person to be hearing them. Angel chewed his lip. He tried to give a little eye contact this time, flirting with the idea of compassion. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“It’s okay.”

“Not really. I can’t even stand anymore and you’ve wasted countless hours on my own cruddy attitude, just because you feel guilty. Because you think you have to fix everything he messes up.”

Angel’s empty stomach somehow managed a somersault. This was probably the closest he’d come to an apology in a while. And it was going along rather stupidly. 

“You think that’s why I visit you? Because I feel bad?”

Angel squinted at him. “Isn’t it?”

It took several explanations and pleadings for the nurse to pry the two of them off each other. When Angel got back from the bathroom, he was gone.


	44. Saying Goodbye

By now, you’d think Marshall had gotten used to random visitation. You’d be wrong. In his defense, it’s awfully hard not to shit oneself when you glance at your bedroom window one presumably uneventful night, and see a figure standing there. Watching you. 

Marshall had always thought he’d die in a car crash. Or mid-panic attack. Or maybe even as a victim of random hate crime. Can you classify a hate crime as random? We’re getting off track here. Anyway, there was Marshall. Cautiously trying to digest his own inevitable death. Were there any regrets? Any cast aside future plans that he would have to mourn during his last handful of breathing-based seconds? There were things he wished he had done, sure. But none that, realistically, he thought would have ever happened.

So, Marshall decided that this was fair. That who could make for a murder victim, if not an insignificant speck such as himself? As the figure drew itself nearer, he saw the moonlight gleam on the thing in his hand. That thing was a knife. Despite already preparing for his death just a second ago, Marshall found the knife legitimized this realization like a punch to the gut. He was going to die tonight. His lungs were less graceful in processing this.

But when the figure drew nearer to him, the knife did not raise. Why wasn’t it raising? So close, and he could still only see an outline and a blade’s scintillation. Marshall reached, tentatively, for the lamp beside him. Just before it illuminated the room, their lips met. Lee would later swear that he wasn’t to blame for that one. But maybe he was. Isn’t that the romantic way to go? He closed his eyes, and was rewarded with a slap.

“I want you to look at me.” Marshall’s eyes widened.

“Bu-“

“God, I despise that name. You got anything better to call me by? …Never mind. No time.”

Marshall quickly fixed his hair, and re-blanketed his naked upper half. As always, he was underdressed. His “murderer” on the other hand, was decked out in a fabric that had to be at least one thousand. “I don’t understand.”

“You never do.” Bubba reached for the top of his head. His knife was still in the other hand. He knotted it back up. He yanked the blanket back down. “We’ve already established you’re not coming with me. And maybe I shouldn’t have offered you that anyway. You need to graduate and get a job. You need to find someone. You need to eat right and by yourself some new godamn clothes.”

Marshall sighed. There was a lot he could, and maybe should say. But then his company would just run away faster.

“Could you please put the knife down?”

Bubba gave him a look, a look like Marshall was being a big baby for not wanting to associate with a big hunk of metal in his bedroom. But he sat the glistening piece down on the bed stand, and with a clunk it was gone. 

Or was it? Marshall swore he could still see that piercing reflection in either one of his eyes. The same sharpness as a slice to the chest.

Bubba kissed him again. He pushed him back against the bed, sinking him into his own pillowcase. Marshall obliged, he closed his eyes and began stretching the moment. When they were done, Bubba picked the knife back up. He knew this wasn’t the case, but for a second Marshall took this to mean he was in fact going to be gutted, now that he had served his purpose. He could think of no argument for prolonging his own existence, and if he had one, he would not have used it.

“You’re going after him.”

Bubba kissed his forehead. This was Marshall’s first ever forehead kiss. He quickly decided it was his favorite kind of kiss. It was the nice kind of possessive, a more tender and less destructive form of selfish. He felt butterflies the way he used to.

“Go back to sleep,” he said, and Marshall swore to himself that he didn’t want to, that he was going to call the police the minute he was alone again. But his eyelids had a different plan in mind, shutting him off from the world before the company and his knife had even left the room.


End file.
